


John's Limp

by crimsonwinter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom!Lock, Confessions, Dating, Fingering, Fluff, Gay, Graphic Violence, Johnlock - Freeform, Lemon, Love, M/M, Memories, NSFW, Night Terrors, PTSD John, Panic Attacks, Pillow Talk, Rimming, Romance, Sexual Assault, Smut, Wounds, does this count as angst, i'm really proud of this, john x sherlock - Freeform, sherlock x john, top!John, virginal sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 11:29:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 30,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1548965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/pseuds/crimsonwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John returns from Afghanistan without someone waiting for him. After his husband dumps him over the phone, he embarks on a series of curious adventures with Sherlock Holmes, pertaining but not limited to romantic and sexual endeavors. John and Sherlock both suffer from PTSD-like symptoms and there are descriptions of wounds and assault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lovetheoriginalplot](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lovetheoriginalplot).



> My best friend and I wrote this, and I'm extremely proud of how well we switched off with chapters and managed not to kill each other.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The doctor felt his entire being ache. His heart dripped down into his leg, and he began to limp towards the exit, every step more difficult than the last. His thoughts blurred and refined, the shock of what had happened sinking into him.

The army doctor paced uncomfortably, his shoulder sparking with pain now and again. He bounced on his toes impatiently and glanced at the clock. He’d been waiting forty-five minutes now and there was still no sign of his husband. He preoccupied himself with watching the people in the baggage area. A woman, mid-thirties, was leaning down next to her child, whose hair was the same dark, curly brown as hers. She pointed out her bag to the little girl, who clapped her hands happily as she watched it move circularly on the belt towards her. She pulled it off with chubby fingers, the pink tag flopping over and exposing the name “Cynthia.” Little Cynthia immediately tore the zipper open and dug through her bag, eager to find her doll, which she pulled from the mess and hugged tightly. John sighed - he wished he could be hugged like that.

The other families and couples who met up and discussed their travels also pained John, who hadn’t seen or heard from his sister or husband since his time began in Afghanistan.

He stood now, leaning against a railing, his speckled green suit still smelling of Middle Eastern dust. His face hurt from the plane ride, as did his head, and the worrisome nature he carried with him shook his hands uncontrollably. His shoulder, the spot where he’d been shot, tweaked slightly as he drew in a breath, nervously waiting for that glorious redhead to peek through the crowd and smile at him.

 _Where are you?_ His palms were sweaty, callused, and shaking. _Where are you, sweetheart?_ John knew that Henry hated being called that, but it was a reflex, as were his tremulous hands, and he sought comfort in the childish name.

John called again, his fingertips numb from pressing into the railing he leaned on. _Bloody_ _horrid service in here, why isn't this working?_ When met with another empty click, John Watson let his cell fall back into the pocket of his army trousers, the smooth surface smudged with nervous sweat.

Forty five minutes turned into an hour, then two, then three. The baggage claim was packed with a whole new crowd now. The veteran sighed wistfully, wishing he could swallow his fear and doubts as he had done upon being shot. But unfortunately, it wasn’t that easy; it looked as though Henry wasn’t coming. John watched the little girl and her mother leave, as did an old man with a rambunctious grandson. The baggage area was darkening with each passing quadrant of time and it was only a matter of minutes before he was hustled away by the airport security.

A small, blonde, peppy woman, one of the only people left at the claim, passed by and he tapped her on the shoulder, his knee piercing in sudden agony. Wincing, he bit back the pain, along with his concern.The lady turned. John's own phone was sapped of its battery from the numerous attempts at reaching Henry, all unsuccessfully.

“Hi. Sorry, do you have a phone I can borrow?” Her brilliant blue eyes looked exasperated, and John felt his knee spark again when he thought she’d turn away and he’d be left to find a pay phone. John's own cell was sapped of its battery from the numerous attempts at reaching Henry, all which were met with a strange, abrupt disconnect. Alas, the woman retrieved her phone from her pocket and set it to the dial pad. The weary, uniformed doctor smiled gratefully.

The phone rang three times before connecting. With each empty ring, the man’s leg continued to throb suspiciously. “Hello?”

The deep, familiar voice that had always been a comfort was rigid around the edges, colder. It was so different from what he remembered that he worried momentarily for his husband's safety. “Sweetheart! It’s John. Where are you?”

There was a moment of silence before the worn voice spoke. “Don’t call me that.”

John’s breath hitched in his throat, and suddenly his leg wasn’t the only thing that pained him. "I - I haven’t heard your voice in so long. Is everything alright? Are you delayed?”

Silence again.

“I’m not coming,” Henry said. That wasn’t something the Henry from two years previous would have said, but he said it now, and John felt his throat clog and his face heat. The woman looked at him suspiciously and he attempted to smile feebly at her, even though all he saw was red.

He managed an angry, “What?” before his husband spoke again.

“I’ve moved on.” The words didn’t seem hard to get out; they felt overdue.

John was sure his countenance revealed his inner war, and the blinding pain in his leg was suddenly welcome. His hurt became rage, and he shouted into the phone, “What do you bloody mean you’ve moved on?!” The woman flinched. “Please, Henry. You’re my husband. Just come get me, like you promised, and we can talk about this.”

Henry was the one to sigh this time. “It’s over, John. Please don’t contact me again.” The man on the phone disconnected and John wasn’t sure he even knew him anymore.

The woman took her phone back, horrified. “Announce that you’re a fucking faggot before asking to use someone’s mobile, why don’t you?!” She spat at the soldier and turned on her heel, her small form scampering away lividly.

The doctor felt his entire being ache. His heart dripped down into his leg, and he began to limp towards the exit, every step more difficult than the last. His thoughts blurred and refined, the shock of what had happened sinking into him. He blinked stupidly, a failed attempt to soothe his watering eyes.

_I’ll have to find a cab. And a place to stay._

His chest heaved. Tears finally cascaded down his cheeks and he pushed his way through the door, stumbling onto the sidewalk. He pulled his bag closer to his hip, his arm muscle tensing with the weight.

He stood and waited for a taxi.

Luckily, London cabbies were about at all hours, and as the night darkened around him, John was eager to slip into the backseat of a sleek black cab and cry silently. Within eight agonizing minutes, a car pulled up outside of the airport and John ducked inside quickly, his leg hitting the bottom edge with a thump. He pushed his bag in first, a little too roughly. The hit from his shin finally caught up to him. He bit the pain back with sharp teeth to a swollen lip.

He situated himself and let the tears fall, the driver's head never turning from his position in the front seat.

“Where to, soldier?”

John couldn’t think of a single place to go. Harriet wouldn’t want him, and Henry obviously didn’t.

“A motel, I s’pose.”

“You lookin’ for a place to stay?”

John winced with the truth of the matter. “Yes,” he said weakly.

“I heard about a guy was looking for a flatmate just earlier today - this sort of big guy was in here, talking on the phone with him. Er, I don’t know what good that’ll d’ya, but I think I can get his name for ya. He paid with a card and the info’s in here.” The cabbie tapped the machine at the front of the car.

 _Fuck it,_ John thought. “Sure, that’d be much appreciated.”

The cabbie touched the screen of the high tech machine and scrolled with a stubby finger. He’d made plenty of trips today, but as he went further down, the area branched out from the airport.

“Ah,” he said, “‘Ere. Mike Stamford, paid me for his trip to his office. Great little machine, here. Yeah, he was on the phone talking to a bloke who was complaining about it, it seems. You’d think that cabbies wouldn’t remember so much, but aye, I do. You could call him up, I could drop you off at a phonebooth. His number’s probably in the book - heh, aren’t most peoples’?”

The chatty cabbie continued on as John began to feel his heart swell. Mike Stamford. He knew him, once upon a time. What a happy coincidence.

“Thanks, mate, I actually know the guy. If you could drop me off at a phone booth, that’d be great.” John’s tears had dried at the tiny happenstance of knowing someone, simply coming to him through a talkative cabbie.

“Lucky you, I’ll take you to that one up ahead, seems you had to limp just to get in my cab. I won’t make you walk.”

“Thanks,” John said again. He fumbled for some cash, which the cabbie noticed.

“No, this one’s fine, you didn’t go anywhere, didja? A’course, if you need a ride to meet this fellow, if he remembers you, then I’ll be of service. I’ll wait for ya to finish the phone call, if you’d like.”

John smiled softly at the man’s considerate nature, and he suddenly realized that Henry was much more rude to cab drivers when they’d take them.

The cab pulled up beside the red phonebooth and John hobbled out of it and onto the street with a nod to the cabbie. The older man, now looking directly at him from inside, smiled happily. He seemed to want to wait. John pulled open the sliding door and immediately let out a shaky breath. He hoped it’d work, even if he only had a small description and a name to go off of. He flipped through the book and found Mike, whose profession was still listed as it was before. John entered the correct number of coins which he’d had jingling in one of the pockets of his pants. He suddenly wished he wasn’t dressed as a soldier. He also wished he hadn’t left his bag in the car - the cabbie could drive away with it. John felt like it didn’t matter, really, since none of the things in it were particularly sentimental. He dialed up Mike’s number and prayed that he’d pick up, just to hear a familiar voice that wasn’t hiding razor blades.

“Oi, who’s this?” Mike said after the fourth ring. He must’ve had caller ID on his home phone.

“Uh, John Watson.” The soldier said, furrowing his brows. The cabbie smiled at him again.

“John? Mate! You’re not dead!”

“Unfortunately not.”

“Where ya callin’ from, I’ll pick you up, we can get a beer!”

“You’re not busy?” John hid his excitement at Mike’s eagerness to see him. At least one person was happy for his return.

“Ah, I’m just at home watching the game. Boring night anyway. Where you at?”

“A phonebooth a little ways up from the airport in Northern London. You’re not too far away?”

“Nothing’s too far away for John Watson. You really frightened us when you left, the whole gang!” John’s tears came back again, this time full of joy and memories.

“Alright, how long will you be?”

“‘Bout half an hour, I s’pose. I’ll see you! Stay there!”

“Thanks, mate. See you.”

John hung up. The cabbie’s worried expression softened when John gave him a thumbs up. John hobbled down towards the cab and peeked his head through the open window. “You care to chat ‘til he comes?”

“Aye!”

John clambered in the back once more and began to tell the cabbie about his experiences in the war. When it came time to answer why he’d been upset, he changed Henry’s sex, worried he’d get the same reaction as the short blonde woman had given him.

“That’s rough buddy. But hey, there’s other fish in the sea, right?”

“...She was a really great fish. Beautiful. Red hair, chocolate eyes, round face. Everything.”

“Ah… Nothing like the looks of your first love. But imagine this - you meet a splendid gal with the opposite of all those things. She has brown hair, green eyes, and a slender face! Ooh, with cheekbones and ev’rything!” John smiled fondly. This cabbie was swell. That did sound like a beautiful combination of looks.

“I guess I get to start over now,” John said as a car pulled up behind the cab, the streets oddly silent. “Is that Mike? … It is!” The doctor couldn’t help but breathe erratically as he hopped out of the car, his leg’s pain lessening slightly.

“Mike!” The big, round-bellied man approached him, and even though John hadn’t seen him in years, he felt the need to hug him - the man had just driven across town to pick him up on a whim, something his own husband couldn’t have done after years of planning.

“Oi,” Mike said again, “You’re excited!”

“Henry left me here alone, he said ‘It’s over.’” John couldn’t help but let the words tumble out, low enough for Mike to hear but not so low as to admit it to himself.

He turned back to the cab, “You’ve been really helpful mate, here, it’s the least I can do to repay you.” He handed the cabbie a large wad of cash which he was hoping on spending on dinner for him and Henry. John took his bag from the cab and patted the top.

“See ya, mate! Hope you find a flatmate!” The cabbie waved out the window and drove away, leaving Mike and John standing in the street.

“You looking for a flatmate?” Mike asked, slipping back into the car.

John walked around to the passenger side and got in as well, after tossing his bag in the back. He was acting strangely friendly for a man who’d just been reacquainted with someone after years apart, and even though he and Mike didn’t particularly know each other that well, John held onto to anything that wasn’t Henry at the moment.

“Yeah, but can’t imagine anyone wanting me as one. That’s what - shit, I didn’t get his name. That’s how I found you, the cabbie heard you talking on the phone with someone who needed a flatmate in his cab. It was a chance, but I’ve got nothing to lose. Literally…” John faded off as Mike started the car.

“Oh, I was on the phone with Sherlock Holmes.”

For some odd reason, that particular name twanged John’s heartstrings. It just sounded… interesting. And right now, interesting was good enough. “Is he still free? I mean - uh, does he still need a flatmate?”

_John Watson, your gay is showing._

“Yeah, actually he’s probably still at the lab right now - if you want to meet him. It’s only eight. You’ve got time to call a motel if it turns out you don’t want to go home with the guy.”

Mike snickered at his own innuendo. John just grinned stupidly. “Perfect.” His mood had increased dramatically, and he hadn’t even met the prick yet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was beautiful, majestic even.

The ride to Bart’s was one filled with old tales and John’s feigned laughter, accompanied with Mike’s hearty bellows - as had been the case overseas.

The car ride was pleasant, the flashes of the London lights landing like flecks of paint on John’s skin. He missed all of it, even as it was all at his fingertips now. He missed the smell and the rain and the street signs. As they drew closer to their destination, he forced himself to forget all the places Henry had touched - the once golden areas now tainted black with regret.

Arriving in front of the hospital, John found his stomach flipping and knee throbbing. He swallowed his fear, which was unusually climbing up his throat. He had the feeling that something new was coming, and as much as he hoped it wouldn’t end in another relationship - he missed sex. He missed contact.

Mike Stamford and John Watson gimped sluggishly side-by-side through the sliding hospital doors, instantly surrounded with wheelchairs, nurses, and IV pumps. The sad eyes of the patients tore into John’s core and reminded him of the Afghani children who pleaded with the same helpless look.

He darted his eyes away as he watched his feet scuffle behind Mike. He led him down a few flights of stairs. When John lifted his dark, tired gaze, he was met with a wide, clean lab, a slender brunette leaning over a low lab table.

John noticed that she looked sad as he dragged her eyes heavily over to a man, his back turned to John and Mike. The men approached, Mike giving the woman a chubby smile.

“This your girlfriend, Sherlock?” Mike said, his tone seeping with sexual innuendo. The round man continued to walk towards the tight shouldered, dark haired scientist. He was fiddling with a microscope, that much John could see, but his face was still hidden.

John noticed the man tense. He scoffed, “Not really my area.”

The returned soldier immediately sparked at the man’s voice. It was chilling, but not in the way that Henry’s was. It wasn’t heartbreaking so much as appealing - John wanted to get on his knees and grovel for this man’s praise by the sound of his low, grumbling, tiger-esque voice alone.

The woman chuckled nervously, her long brown ponytail swishing over her white labcoat. John didn’t know where to look and he forgot to ask for a seat. He wanted to see the man’s face.

“Don’t be rude. Look, I brought you a potential flatmate.” Mike plopped his round behind in a chair, John standing promptly beside him, his uniform seeming out of place in the spotless lab.

The woman was curious but rushed out after flashing a meek smile at John.

The man turned around as she left.

John’s breath hitched.

He was beautiful, majestic even. His face caught John off guard, its sharp edges and pale skin seemingly supernatural against his dark suit jacket. His brown, curled hair sat peacefully on his head, but it was wild nonetheless. His eyes were strikingly green, but as he swept his gaze down John’s form, he caught them darkening. His nose was prominent and long, upturned slightly as if he were always looking down it at everyone below him. John heated at his look, the man’s full but sparse brows furrowing as he stood.

 _Goddamn, he’s tall, too?!_  John attempted to hide his attraction, but it seemed to fail as the man smirked the tiniest of smiles.

“Afghanistan? How pleasant.” John melted, and as Sherlock slowly made his way closer to him, the soldier’s mind was flooded with images of pale, toned bodies with droplets of sweat and bath water glistening like diamonds in moonlight. He brushed them away with a bite of his lip, his leg no longer shooting with sharp pain.

His crotch tightened, a welcome change, but completely inappropriate at the moment. John’s ears burned.

 _Shit, I’m going to need a wank down in the morgue later_ , John thought.

Sherlock Holmes watched the man tense, his own unnatural deductions coursing through his mind.

Soldier, Sherlock thought lecherously, his secret kink igniting. His impassive countenance hid any attraction, and John was oblivious to his matching salacious thoughts.

 _Handsome. Regal. Loyal. Soldier boy breaks all the girls’ hearts,_  Mr. Holmes sang in his head eerily.  _He’s just gone through something traumatic, the war aside. He’s come directly from the airport, so someone must’ve left him there. A brother? No, too sentimental. A lover? A girlfriend? Wife? I can’t tell. He seems to be slightly attracted to me - that might be a problem. This meeting must be a last resort. How unfortunate._

“Sherlock Holmes,” he introduced himself, taking the man’s rough hand in his, which dwarfed John’s.

“Captain John Watson.”  _Fucking cheekbones._

“I was thinking of moving into this little place on Baker Street, a friend owes me. It seems pleasant enough. 221B.” He moved past John towards the lab’s exit. He took a long, black coat from a nearby hook and was reaching for the door before John could speak.

“We don’t even know each other.” John said, more exasperated that this one was a prick as well.

“Yeah - Sherlock, come out for a drink with us,” Mike piped in from his seated position. He reveled in the sparks that flew between the men.

“I don’t drink.”

“You used to.” Mike was jolly as he surprisingly was limber enough to push past Sherlock and lead John out of the laboratory first.

“I don’t want to be any trouble…” John said, alarmed at his own compliance to bend on the whim of this stranger.

This modesty did not go unnoted by one Sherlock Holmes. “Fine, a drink. Come on.”

The two men left John standing alone in the lab. He adjusted his crotch nervously, forcing himself to clear his mind of the sexual thoughts that were focused solely on the handsome prick of a scientist who had just ordered him around.

Mike drove them, John in the back, Sherlock in the passenger seat. Mike filled up his car with conversation, chatting cheerily about how grateful he was that John was back, safe and sound. He said nothing of the other man’s profession. John was interested, and it seemed he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Sherlock’s structured face, his right cheek shining white against the darkening night.

The bar was packed when they arrived, the Saturday night crowd bouncing unceremoniously to the music, the occasional drunk singing off-key, to Sherlock’s disdain. They found three available stools at the bar and sat hastily, John on Sherlock’s right side, Mike on his left. “What will you boys be having?” The bartender smiled.

Mike and John ordered a beer and after much coaxing, Sherlock finally settled for a Piña Colada. The weary soldier committed this to memory with a smirk.  _Maybe there is hope._

“So, tell me, John Watson. What’s her name?” Sherlock untied his navy scarf and dropped it into his lap.

“S-Sorry?” John stuttered, a brow raised into his pale hair.

“Her name. The woman who left you at the airport.” 

John’s knee pulsed with a momentary agony and he fought the urge to slap this beautiful man across his angular face. With a deep, shuddering breath, his irritation subsided and was replaced with a broken sigh. “Let me get drunk first.” He chuckled sadly.

Sherlock’s eyes twinkled and a single, wild curl on his forehead bobbed, flustered. “I didn’t intend - ”

“Here you are, guys.” The tan, brunette bartender delivered their drinks then, his swooped bangs fluffing over his eye with a pouty breath. He passed Mike and John their ales and slipped Sherlock his cocktail with a wink. “It’s on the house.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and delivered the man a smile which disappeared as soon as he turned his back. Taking a sip of his tropical concoction, Sherlock peeled the damp note from beneath it and crumpled it up.  _Won’t be calling him. Too easy. Boring. Not my type._

John caught this with a frown but said nothing, instead gulping his drink in far too few sips and then throwing his hand up to order another. _Not gay then. Just bloody misleading taste in drinks._

A shrill tone sounded from Mike’s pocket and he groaned, retrieving his mobile and squinting at the text. “Well, that’ll be the Missus. Sorry to leave you boys, but I best be off.” Rising chubbily from the stool, he shook both Sherlock and John’s hands. “I’ll drop your bag off on Baker Street then, John.” 

John raised a brow. “What, no - ”

“Bye, John!” Mike glided away before the army doctor could stop him and the poor man sighed, dropping his pulsing head into his hands.

The slightly bitter bartender brought John his second drink and he sipped it quickly, unaware of Sherlock’s intimidating glare. When he lifted his eyes from John’s form, Sherlock attempted to eye flirt with the bartender, whose mood had risen since he did so. Sherlock played him in hopes of keeping the drinks free. He had no interest in him, but John was finishing his drinks quicker than he could speak. Sherlock also watched the bar flies and short-skirted women around the pub.

His gaze remained on John Watson most of the time, however. The men sat in close proximity, relaxing as much as they could with the sexual tension heavy in the air. They didn’t speak much, but when they did, it was a while between words, the bar scene engulfing their small conversation. Time went on. John drank. Sherlock sipped his colada lightly, intending on staying sober. John ordered another.

John took his time with this beer, and slowed down his drinking as he felt the warmth course through his veins. John felt looser.

“It wasn’t a she,” he said suddenly above the noise, now more comfortable speaking of Henry. Mike’s disappearance caused him to act both more vulnerable and more open with the stranger.

Sherlock, his eyes unrelentless, sighed sharply.  _A man! I always miss something._  “Oh?”

“Yeah,” John blinked stupidly, his lids threatening to close heavily. “Henry. It was Henry.”

Mr. Holmes documented the name in a new file in his brain he’d labeled  _“John.”_  This file was created within the two seconds that he learned the captain’s name.

“Henry Parkinson… before it became Watson-Parkinson. He never liked that combination.” John hiccuped as he took more drinks, each deepening his tipsy state. He called for another drink, but Sherlock felt that the last one needn’t come. He eyed the bartender and shook his head slowly. The flirty young man understood.

 _Eager to get drunk. Hopes to erase the memory_. Sherlock watched the soldier fiddle with the hem of his sleeve.  _Three beers is enough._

“You married him?” Sherlock nearly figured everything out by now: John had always been closeted but had finally found someone to spend his life with. Of course, he was young and naive and didn’t think Henry would actually wait around for him during the war. Henry was probably just as horny and impatient as John acted now. Sherlock berated himself for repeating John’s husband’s name in his head a few times, cursing it silently with each repetition.

“Yeah - beautiful wedding. My mother cried. My sister, too. His parents didn’t. The colors were green and blue. Very formal. Our honeymoon was playing scrabble and drinking wine after judging all the wedding guests. He was really great.”

“Was?” Sherlock was eager to pull more information out of John. The soldier had gone from tight and closeted to open and human within three beers. He continued on, rolling the words out confidently, even though they hung in the air sadly before Sherlock breathed their impact in.

“Ginger, heart shaped face, chiseled. He was really great,” he said again. “Y’know, I always had the feeling that he had a temper, that he’d get bored. I knew that he’d move on when I left for Afghanistan, but I held my breath hoping I was just paranoid. We didn’t break up the day I left… we just… broke.” The words from John’s lips were slow, tumbling out like fractured confessions. Sherlock wondered if he’d remember this in the morning. He knew he would. His file was going to be buzzing all night as he made further deductions about John Watson’s heart.

“And how did you feel about him?”

“Oh, I loved him. I loved him very much. ‘Course, I think that was the problem. He seemed like I was just another shag, that happened to be every night. Y’know, he always made me bottom. I never liked that. But I did it... for him.” John was blushing now, the shock of losing his husband finally hitting him. He threw caution to the wind and revealed everything to Sherlock, who sat there placidly, pinching the skin on his finger, never taking his eyes off John’s pained but sloshed form.

Sherlock filed away John’s discomfort at catching during sex.  _That is important_. He told himself as if there would one day be a need for that information.

“Funny, ‘cause he was the one to propose. It was about three years before I had to go off to the war. We were really happy. We were! Don’t look at me like that.”

Sherlock hadn’t looked at him in any certain way.

“What about when things started to change?” He asked casually, maneuvering his way through John’s words, piecing together the story like a puzzle - filing each section away cleverly.

“Right before I left. We talked about how he’d wait for me, pick me up tonight in the next couple of years, write to me, be a good husband… But he’d been losing his temper and was touchy about the stupidest things,” John drank the last of his beer, “And I could feel him pushing me away. A’course, that just made me want him more, and I sappily and so stupidly told him I loved him most… And I,” John laughed with a husky breath. “I reminded him of the time with the bagels.”

“Bagels?” Sherlock’s heart went out to the man who sat in front of him now, his rational side cursing Henry for being so foolish and bored. John was loyal and faithful, that much was obvious, and for someone to just cast his love away… Of course, Sherlock had just met him, and John could’ve been abusing Henry for years for all he knew. Henry might not even exist, or he could be sixty. Sherlock was calculating all the lies John could be telling, save for his military status. Something told him that John was being honest with him. Alcohol did that to people, it seemed. He took an irrational chance and believed the handsome military man. Sherlock darted his eyes down to John’s chest, where his rank was listed. Captain. Captain John Watson.

 _Down boy_ , Sherlock joked to himself. Sexually, he was so closeted that his ironic attraction to John Watson was fascinating at best. He thought of conducting an experiment. He wondered how far he could push John.

“Oh yes. One day, we went down to the park there,” John nodded his head in a vague direction. “We had a picnic, of sorts. We had bagels. We were eating and laughing and seeing the shapes of the clouds… Couple stuff,  _love,_  you know. Anyway, this bird came and stole the sack with our bagels in it and we ended up chasing it all around the park. When we finally lost it, we were out of breath, in the pond, dripping wet, terrifying this poor child’s birthday party with our rambunctious play fighting.” John’s words were still somewhat intelligent as he recalled his husband.

“That’s funny.” Sherlock could feel him nearing the end of his rant. John was close to passing out. It must have been a stressful day.

“Yeah. And then he just wouldn’t answer me today… I had to use this lady’s phone, she was a bit of a bitch, actually. He said it was over and to not contact him anymore. It hurt pretty bad. I mean, he said he’d wait, that he’d never be bored of me. He said he’d love me as long as I loved him … and I still love him.”

That last bit tweaked Sherlock’s heart the hardest. John should not be fawning over some impatient bastard. Sherlock Holmes was nearly livid as he called on the bartender to tell him to get a cab outside. He seemed resistant at first, but Sherlock smiled flirtatiously and batted his eyelashes, and the young man was instantly hailing a cab out the door of the pub. John’s three beers, Mike’s one, and Sherlock’s barely touched tropical drink were on the house, Sherlock’s insanely handsome and sly flirting leaving the bartender without a second thought of the price he’d have to pay.

“Where are we going?” John leaned on Sherlock unconsciously as he stood awkwardly from the stool and let himself be lead out by the taller man. He wasn’t blasted drunk, but three beers and terrible jet lag had definitely caught up with him. He pressed himself into the strong, warm shoulder and found himself in a cab before he had an answer to his question.

“Home.” Sherlock said.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He meandered down into what was quickly discovered to be a flat, a man in a tight-shouldered suit jacket typing on a black laptop, which was set on what appeared to be the only clean surface in the apartment.

John Watson awoke in a room that was unfamiliar to him. He attempted to blink the sleep from his eyes, but found that working his heavy lids only caused his head to pound.

 _What the hell?_  The veteran attempted to recall the night before, a navy scarf and wooden stool the only fragments he could pull from his disheveled memory. He patted his clothes and pockets formally as he sat up in bed with a groan. With a quick scan of the room, he found his gun laying slackly beside him on an otherwise bare night stand.  

 _Still in my uniform. Did Henry pick me up?_  Maybe he’d just forgotten what his home had looked like, or maybe Henry had moved.

The room he was in now was less than personalized, a few paintings and knickknacks scattered around the place. His green bag sat innocently on a dusty chair beside the bed and he crossed to it. He rummaged mindlessly through his things until he found a toothbrush, a clean, light blue sweater, and jeans.

He changed into the clothes slowly, his head throbbing. _I’m missing something. What have I forgotten?_  A moment of fear crossed John’s path, but a natural adventurer, the man decided to see what lay outside of this unfamiliar room. He opened the pale bedroom door and took a tentative step towards the narrow staircase which greeted him. His leg and brain throbbed as he inched forward and John found with a sigh that he needed to lean against the railing in order to descend the steps.

He meandered down into what was quickly discovered to be a flat, a man in a tight-shouldered suit jacket typing on a black laptop, which was set on what appeared to be the only clean surface in the apartment. The room that John admired now, aside from being cluttered with papers and dishes, was grand and intricate, with old victorian wallpaper, a chemistry set, and multiple chairs.

Sherlock peeked up over his computer screen with emerald eyes and rose to his feet, directing his attention to his hungover guest. “Nearly slept the whole day away. Do you feel better?”

The intimidating gaze and raven locks struck something in John, who began to recall a pub and cocktails.  _Oh right. The misleadingly straight detective from St. Bart’s._

“Sherlock Holmes, is it?” John limped forward, easing mindlessly into a worn, but surprisingly soft, loveseat. He nearly apologized for sitting without request, but found that he was strangely at home in the messy and undiscovered flat.

“Yes. 221B Baker Street, I’m your new flatmate. Hello. Do you remember what else happened last night?” The man flitted about the chemistry set as he spoke.

The veteran’s stomach growled, but he ignored it. Face heating, his abdomen clenched.  _Did I shag him_? “Not really, no. Care to fill me in?”

“Mike took us out for drinks and you had a few beers before crashing. I brought you back here, set you up in your new room, and you’ve just woken up now. It’s nearly four in the afternoon.” There was a moment’s hesitation and Sherlock stopped to bite his lip before adding in a strained voice, “Nothing happened, by the way. With me.” Sherlock swallowed hard, his rising embarrassment getting forced back into his stomach.

Jesus. “Oh, I didn’t think - “

“Well, I thought I’d assure you. I’ve been doing the paperwork, by the way. You’re officially moved in. You can take a few weeks to get settled, but then I suggest you start looking for work.”

 _He did my paperwork?_  John settled with the knowledge that he would probably have taken the flat anyway and sighed, “Alright.” He couldn’t bring himself to look away from the man, who moved gracefully and peered out at the world from behind sapphire orbs and rigid cheekbones. The soldier thought quizzically for a moment how Sherlock’s eyes had been green a few seconds before, but now they shone blue. It was magnificent. John imagined that face could never bore him.  _I wonder if Henry just got bored of my face, got bored of me._

 “Are you hungry?” Sherlock’s deep, growling voice pronounced every syllable with a regal tilt and John couldn’t help but shiver. Sherlock noticed, but said nothing.  _Surely he doesn’t think that was a sexual innuendo._

“Yes,” John said, suddenly aware again of his agonizing knee.

“Our landlady made you some biscuits, but you were sleeping.” He nodded towards the plate which sat in the one empty place on the kitchen table, the chemistry set cluttering up around it. “You can heat them up, I have to work.”

Sherlock disappeared into a room through the kitchen, his black laptop under his arm. His sudden departure left poor Mr. Watson frazzled, but with a shake of his head and a raised brow, the man rose from his chair -  _My chair? When did it become my chair?_  - and limped over to the dining table.

John found a note attached to the plate’s edge.

_Heard you’ve moved in with Sherlock! Although I’m just the landlady, I thought you’d appreciate some food. There’s tea in the cupboard._

_P.S. Sherlock seemed almost happy this morning, I’m glad he caught you!_

_\- Mrs. Hudson._

John snorted at the assumption, face inflamed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes does not blush!

The remainder of the day went by slowly and with little sound. Sherlock remained in his room until the sun had set over the London horizon and John found himself tidying up, despite the fact that nothing in the flat was actually his. His leg was only getting worse, and after finding a cane stuffed beneath the living room’s long couch, John opted to use it as he made his way about the place. It took three hours just to get all of the mail in one spot, but the satisfaction of having everything organized was well worth the time it took to do so. The dishes were washed, trash was bagged, and papers all sat in stacks upon a small table by the window. John huffed a satisfied sigh and settled back into the same chair he’d resided in before eating his “breakfast”. He turned a sore head and leaned back, finding himself staring at a human skull propped up at the fireplace. There had been several occasions where he’d debated whether to throw the severed head away or to call upon Sherlock to do it himself, but in the end he figured it was his flatmate’s right to keep some strange things around his apartment. He had been here first, after all.

With that thought, the tall man himself wandered from his room, stopping mid stride at the state of his home. “Hmm.” He mumbled, walking more slowly now and settling upon a plush chair across from John’s. “I see you’ve kept yourself busy. Oh, and you’ve found a cane for your psychosomatic limp. That’s the spirit.”

John ignored the comment. “So tell me, Mr. Holmes - ”

“Sherlock will do.”

“So tell me, Sherlock…” John corrected, “What do you do for a living?

The consulting detective smiled, describing himself as such and responding promptly to his inquiry about the position. “I help the police with their investigations. I’m the only one like it in the world. I invented the job.”

John’s brows furrowed. “Huh. I didn’t think police consulted amateurs.”

Sherlock’s eyes twinkled with something that John couldn’t detect and he tilted his head. “Tell me, does your brother even know you’re back?”

John was taken aback. “How did you know - ”

“I didn’t know... I saw.”

“Sorry?”

Sherlock was nearly smiling.  "Your phone,” he pointed to the phone which lay innocently on the small, round table beside John’s chair. “It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player. You're looking for a flatshare, you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches. Not one, MANY over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting across from me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this. So it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already."

John nearly stuttered, “The engraving.”

"’Harry Watson’, clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now _Clara,_ ‘xxx Clara’. Three kisses says there's a romantic attachment, expense of the phone says 'wife' not 'girlfriend'. She must have given it to him recently, this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then, six months old and he's just _giving_ it away? If she'd left him he would have kept it… People do… _sentiment_.  But no… he wanted rid of it, _he_ left _her_. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodations, yet you're not going to your brother for help, that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don’t like his drinking."

John’s mouth was agape. "How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

Sherlock smiled again. "Shot in the dark, a good one though. Power connection. Tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, you never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see? You were right."

John’s brows had furrowed again. “I was right? Right about what?”

“The police.” Sherlock stood as he spoke and glided over to his violin. “Don’t consult amateurs.”

The consulting detective began to stroke his bow across the delicate instrument he had picked up from beside the window as he uttered that last word and the tightness returned to John’s trousers. “That... was amazing.” _What must he be like in bed? He must be able to see everything. Every fetish. Every hotspot._ John shuttered.

Sherlock’s hand froze mid motion and the tune from his violin, which was on the peak of filling the room, halted and left the air feeling stale. He turned to eye the flatmate, surprise draping over his features. “You think so?”

“Of course. That was extraordinary. It was quite… extraordinary.” John was at a loss for words as he gazed up at the slender man who was nearly leaning against the window. The consulting detective looked down at his violin in wonder.

“That’s not what people normally say.” His eyes drooped and John’s stomach did a sharp flip.

“What do people normally say?”

Sherlock’s head snapped up again and he locked eyes with John, who found he had no means to look away. “Piss off.”

It was clear to John in that moment that Sherlock Holmes was a lonely genius and the veteran wondered how he could possibly be entertaining enough for him. _Best not indulge… He’ll be bored by me faster than Henry ever was._

“You know…” Sherlock had set his violin down, his pale fingers shaking slightly. “You’re a fascinating man. You aren’t as stupid as the rest of them, and you seem to make an effort to observe, which is more than I can say for most other human beings. Plus, war doctor. I’ve always been a sucker for a uniform.” Sherlock smiled at that, half of his lip pulling up and wrinkling the skin about his eye.

John’s cheeks were aflame. _Or maybe I should indulge._ “Are you involved - Currently, I mean. With a woman. Or a man. Or…” John dropped his gaze to his knees, his hands clenching into tight fists. He nearly regretted asking, but the man was incredibly handsome and he was ready to move on from Henry.

Sherlock turned his back, but John caught his reflection in the window - a snicker coursed through the man’s chest but not his shoulders. The consulting detective clasped his long fingers behind his back.

 _Those hands!_ John needed a cold shower.

“I’ve… been married to my work for quite some time. Though recently, it seems the work hasn’t quite been enough.” Sherlock was amazed with himself. He knew John was interested in men because of his confession about Henry, but the idea of asking him out was terrifying if nothing else. _Shut up! Why am I saying all of this! Don’t get sentimental, Sherlock Holmes. You only need your work._

“So there is somebody.” John sighed. _Of course a man like him would be taken._

Sherlock spun around quickly. “No! I mean… No. I’ve been alone. I am alone. I mean, I’ve got the cases and the science experiments, but…. My… bed... Is empty.” The words sounded so strange as they rolled under his deep voice. The detective dared to check his reflection. _Am I blushing? Sherlock Holmes does not blush!_ And yet, his cheeks were warm.

 _Is he blushing?_ John felt heat rising to his own face. He’d been flushed quite often these past several hours. “I see.”

“Unless…” Sherlock mumbled.

John raised a brow. “Unless?”

“Would you like to have dinner?” The words were so unfamiliar to Sherlock that upon uttering them, he had to lick his lips to confirm that he was still himself. Yes, still his lips. Yes, still his tongue. Sherlock had become very aware that he had yet to sit down, and thought he might faint. The room was becoming awfully small.

John fumbled. “Uh…”

Sherlock gasped. “Oh! Of course. No. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked… I don’t know why I said that… I’ll just… I’ll go. I’ve got things to - ” Sherlock had begun to panic upon the mumble of John’s uncertainty, quickly picking up and then putting down his violin, spinning in a tight circle, looking around for something to do and then opting to escape down the hall and into his room. John hopped out of his chair, injured knee forgotten, and placed a hand on the taller man’s chest, stopping him from leaving the living room.

“Sher - Sherlock!” John was chuckling, his hot blush mellowing to a warm glow in his cheeks as he peered up at the nervous detective. “I’m starving.” the veteran’s voice was soft and Sherlock’s heart rate, which had escalated to a hummingbird’s velocity, began to settle.

“Right… Good. I know a place…” Sherlock was more than aware that the veteran’s hand was still on his chest.

“Lead the way.” John dropped his hand, grabbing the cane and following Sherlock to the front door, where the tall man threw on a long, black jacket and navy scarf.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John refused to let his mind float down the path of he and Henry’s official separation.

“Angelo!” Sherlock slapped a huge hand on the restaurant owner’s broad back as he led John into the humming atmosphere. John noticed the many couples eating pasta dishes around the place, their hands on either forks or each other. The military doctor’s own hands were warm, palms slick with sweat.

“Sherlock! Where’ve you been? Is this your date?” The round, booming man gave John a once-over, and even though the doctor hadn’t been called anyone’s date since Henry, he chimed in confidently.

“Yes. I mean, I hope so.” He fumbled with the knob of his cane, his eyes unsure where to look.

Sherlock gave him a place to settle his gaze on with his own, his high cheekbones glowing gold in the yellow restaurant light, “He is. Angelo, Captain John Watson, recently returned from Afghanistan.”

“Ah!” The man bellowed with laughter as he lead them to a spot by the window beside the door, “A soldier! Lucky for you, Sherlock.”

 John settled into a seat across from Sherlock, still strangely compliant to the man’s whim. He felt unworthy of his presence, but when Sherlock smirked slightly and met his eyes, they widened with fascination and attraction, which was now completely obvious on the man’s impassive face. Henry never looked at him like that. _Stop comparing him to Henry, John! You’ve just been given the opportunity to shag and maybe even begin a relationship with this handsome genius, don’t go and fuck it up by telling him about Henry. Especially the bagels. Don’t mention the bagels._

“So what’ll it be?” He asked. Sherlock darted his eyes to John who was smiling rather calmly at him. _I hope he doesn’t assume that this will be a one night stand. It wasn’t smart bringing him here anyway. Only one day in, and I’ve already gone and asked him to dinner. If this doesn’t work out, he’s going to have to find a new place. And I a new flatmate. Oh for God’s sake, Sherlock, just enjoy this._

“Ice water and a light salad for me. John?”

“Chicken alfredo, please. And no alcohol, I’ve gotten enough of that for now.” He chuckled. Sherlock’s stomach tightened with the memory of the information he was keeping from John.

“Heh,” Angelo turned to Sherlock, “He’s got a good apetite. On the house, of course! Have a splendid evening, Sherlock and John. I’ll fetch that food for you now.”

The men played with their own hands as they were left in silence. Although they both didn’t have to hide their attraction now, Sherlock had only been on a few “dates,” and all of those involved chemistry or corpses. John didn’t know about the cases yet.

John on the other hand, had been a lively night-owl before he met Henry, and even after they were married, they dated with friends. John refused to let his mind float down the path of he and Henry’s official separation. _Not even divorced and I’m already dating… With a handsome consulting detective, nonetheless. Take that, Henry! John thought in more seriousness, It’ll be easier getting over you than I thought._

 _Look at him. He’s thinking about Henry, isn’t he? I could never compare to him. What am I thinking?!_ Sherlock scolded himself for his stupidity, but John’s grey-navy eyes convinced him to tough it out. He spoke.

“So, how do you know Angelo?”

“I got him out of a bit of trouble, earlier on in the year. He’s quite a nice fellow.” Sherlock chatted mindlessly, unaware of what John would say next.

“So are you.” John smiled flirtatiously. “So, how do you go about doing your detective work?”

“Detective inspector G. Lestrade from Scotland Yard texts me if he needs help. I don’t get paid, but I enjoy the distraction. You’re a doctor, so you must have had a lifetime’s worth of horrors.” Sherlock berated himself for speaking as such, especially as they were soon to be eating.

“I have. Plenty.” John wondered where Sherlock was taking this.

“Would you like to see some more? With me, on cases, I mean?”

“God yes.” John’s agreement had sounded sexier than he’d like, it was nearly a moan, but the man just smiled suspiciously as an idea popped into his head.

“Good, next time I get a case I’ll bring you along. My partner in crime, literally. Oh - I didn’t mean partner… I just…”

“Sherlock,” John wanted to reach for his hand. “Can I have your number?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know how good it felt to have John not deny being Sherlock's date? ... SO good.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's better at deducing than Sherlock expected.

Sherlock was in awe. _This man is watching me make an ass of myself and still wants to be able to get ahold of me when I’m not around? Fascinating._ “Of course,” Sherlock reached his hand out for John’s phone, which he had used earlier to deduce nearly everything about John.

He entered his number and handed it back, the tips of their fingers grazing.

“Do you want to play a game while we wait for our food?” Sherlock remembered that John was amazed by his deductions, and he wanted to impress him once more.

“Sure,” _What game?_

“That woman, over there, what do you think she does for a living?” Sherlock nodded his head towards a tired, raven haired woman in a blue dress who was looking less than interested in the man who talked to her about his terriers. _I’ve never done this with anyone but Mycroft,_ Sherlock realized with a start.  

“Lawyer? I don’t know. I’m no good at these deductions, Sherlock.” John shrugged, shoulder aching. His leg was fine, on the other hand.

“No. Here, I’ll show you.” Sherlock leaned forward until his elbows nearly touched the table and his eyes squinted as he observed the unsuspecting woman. “Her glasses are old, evident by the faded coloring on the side, but well cared-for. They’re reading glasses, she only used them when observing the menu. Otherwise, she’s peered over them. Well-worn reading glasses. She does a lot of paperwork.”

John Watson watched as Sherlock continued to deduce the woman, his expressive eyes lighting with what looked like joy.

“Her shoes are broken in, probably a favorite of hers, but they’re not dirty.” He continued. “She wears them often, but not outdoors. Her dress is nice but not brand-name, she bought it herself but doesn’t make a lot of money. Not a lawyer, then. Her nails are manicured, but blunt at the ends. She does a lot of typing. So not a doctor. Her date is boring her, but she’s feigning interest because she doesn’t get a lot of chances to go out. Hard hours, a lot of desk work, reading glasses. I’d say she’s a secretary for a big company.”

John squinted, trying to eye the woman and keep up with Sherlock’s verbal deductions. “It’s all right there.” Sherlock raised a brow. “Sorry.”

“Everything you said. I mean, I can see it all, but… I never would have put it together. Not that quickly, at least.” John turned back around to face his date, who was smiling sheepishly. _Great, you’ve embarrassed him_. “It’s very impressive.” He added quickly.

“Your turn. The man there.” He nodded towards a bigger fellow sitting alone two tables away from where John and Sherlock were perched. His head lacked a single hair and his jacket was faded green. “Where does he work?”

John squinted at the man and after fifteen seconds of total confusion, decided to break it up into chunks, look at one piece at a time. “He’s bald, but it’s shaven. He doesn’t like it, though. He keeps reaching up to stroke his ‘hair’ and his nose crinkles when there isn’t anything there. He must have cut it today.” John kept his eyes locked on the man so as to avoid any disappointment being aimed at him by Sherlock. “He has a line on his head. Maybe he wears a hat? So he works outside, then?” It was a rhetorical question. “Oh, yes! His jacket. There’s a patch on the breast that’s darker than the rest, a little square. For a name tag? The rest of the jacket is faded from the sun. That’s a jacket he works in. He always wears the name tag, so he’s working outside with people who need to know him. He isn’t fat, but he’s big.” John paused. “Why does that matter? Not fat. Why does it matter that he isn’t fat? Ah, he’s active! He’s active and he works outside. But if he’s always wearing that jacket then maybe he isn’t too active. At least not active enough to get sweaty. Maybe he stays active doing something else. Maybe…” John looked down at his shoes, worn out runners. “Is he a coach or something? No, people wouldn’t need to know his name. The athletes would just call him ‘coach’.” He took another look at the shoes. They were stained with dirt, bits of mud caked along the edges.

“Are you sure that it’s a name tag?” Sherlock asked.

John’s eyes darted back up to the dark patch. “What else would it be?”

“I don’t know. But are you sure it’s a name tag?” Sherlock was smiling.

“Yes.”

“Okay, what else is strange about his jacket?”

John sighed, “I don’t know. The color? The size?”

“What about those things are strange?”

“Well…” John fumbled. “The jacket’s pretty green, even for something faded.”

“And the size?”

“It’s too small.” It hugged the man’s arms well above the wrists. John squinted again. “When I was younger, I had a job as a pizza boy and we all had to wear the same shirt. They only came in men’s sizes, so this girl I worked with, a tiny thing, she always looked like she was wearing a dress.”

“Aren’t there many pizza delivery girls?”

John shrugged, “Well, no. Otherwise, I’m sure the boss would have had more women’s sizes… Oh. Oh, the man works somewhere usually set aside for women. That jacket must be a woman’s XL.” John felt a shiver run down his spine, a spark of self-pride. “So he wears a women’s jacket, it’s bright green, he wears a nametag, and his shoes are muddy. He works outside where it’s sunny.”

“What about his hands?” Sherlock was surprised at how little he had to guide John.

“They’re…” John squinted further. “They’re clean. But his wrists are tan, and a bit dirty. Mine got that way from Afghanistan, wearing gloves… Is he… does he do yard work? No… the name tag. Shit, I don’t know.” John shrugged and pressed his back into the seat, looking across the table at Sherlock. “Sorry. I’m at a loss. What does he do?”

Sherlock was staring at John with turquoise orbs, smiling. “He’s a florist. He has a wife, I think, who runs a flower shop out of their home and that man is one of her employees, per say, out in their large yard with other women, tending to flowers and cutting them for people who drive up.”

“Like a christmas tree farm.” John smiled.

“Exactly. Excellent job, by the way. I’m impressed. You got much farther than I thought you would.”

John smiled. “Thank you. That was very… tedious. I can’t imagine having  to see that all of the time. That’s how you see, isn’t it? You notice everything and your brain just forces you to put it all together?”

Sherlock frowned. “More or less. It’s a gift and a skill. What I mean is I’ve always noticed things, but I trained myself to organize the thoughts. Or rather, my brother did.”

John’s eyes widened. “You have a brother?” _There’s more than one of you?_

Sherlock sighed, “Yes. But he’s the smart one. And the annoying one.”

John all but laughed at that. He was about to inquire more about this mystery sibling when Angelo returned with their meal. “Here you are, gentlemen! Enjoy!”

“Thank you, Angelo.” Sherlock feigned a smile at the man, dropping it as soon as he walked away.

 _He does that a lot… Does he do it to me?_ John’s heart stuttered and his knee throbbed. “You know, there was something you did miss when you were deducing me about my brother.”

Sherlock, who was inches from putting a forkful of salad in his mouth, stopped mid motion. “Oh?”

John couldn’t help but smile. “Harry is short for Harriet.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s heart dropped into his stomach and he gripped his cane in his hand tightly, his knuckles turning white; he had forgotten about his pained leg, which no longer sparked with agony.

The men finished their dinners with little difficulty. John almost choked because he laughed at one of Sherlock’s insulting deductions. John found it easy to spend time with Sherlock. He looked more human when he ate, his mechanical nature numbed down a bit.

With a final wave to Angelo, Sherlock stepped down the stairs of the restaurant and followed John onto the London street. It rained while they ate, so the air was crisp and clean. John’s breath was hot and escaped his lip as he began to walk down the sidewalk. He wanted to draw the date out as long as possible, although he was also eager to return to their flat and get physical.

It hadn’t occurred to the men that they’d only just met the day previous. It seemed to both men that they’d known each other for years. They walked down the street, their shoulders brushing despite the height difference.

“That was lovely. What do you want to do now?” John said, content.

Sherlock let himself indulge in the image of John Watson as he walked beside him.

John’s profile breathed steam out of his lips, which Sherlock had yet to kiss. Although

that kiss seemed more plausible now that they were officially dating. John raised his eyes and met Sherlock’s. He smiled widely, his teeth shining white against the darkened street.

“Walking is fine.” Sherlock hesitated, reveling in the comfortable silence. “So, war doctor  - any good stories from your time overseas?”

“Actually, there’s one I have yet to tell…” John started his speech pleasantly, but he was abruptly cut off by a high, blood-curdling scream.

“Sherlock!” John momentarily made eye contact with his new friend before grabbing his arm roughly and leading him in the direction of the scream. Sherlock was impressed with his date’s heroic nature, but disappointed that he wouldn’t get to spend calm time with John. Sighing, Sherlock followed suit along John’s increasing speed.

The men walked swiftly toward the sound of the struggle, but galloped into a run when they rounded a corner and were met with a gruesome scene. A dark van, doors open, revealed two men lifting a gagged and terrified girl into their captivity.

John’s heart dropped into his stomach and he gripped his cane in his hand tightly, his knuckles turning white; he had forgotten about his pained leg, which no longer sparked with agony.

“Hey!” John shouted, his military fitness coming in handy as he was close enough to touch the van, their doors shutting quickly.

“Sherlock,” John called again as the man appeared beside him, his black coat swishing. The van screeched its tires and sped off, but John and Sherlock slowed to a stop and stood in the street, panting.

“I’m on it.” Sherlocks fingertips were pressed to his temples as a map of London appeared within the confines of his mind palace. There’s a turn up ahead, but a shortcut through the alley. John will follow if I take it.

“I got the license plate.” John announced proudly.

“Great work.” Sherlock called before taking off in a sprint towards the van. John followed.

The men covered much ground as they chased the van, taking Sherlock’s obscure routes through alleyways, along side streets, and up ladders to jump frighteningly from one rooftop to the next. John’s heart raced and calves burned as he struggled to keep up with the much taller, faster man, whose endless legs seemed to bound like a horse’s across the unforgiving concrete. They pressed forward relentlessly and it took eight minutes of torturous sprinting to finally reach the van, as Sherlock knew and John suspected that they would.

Sherlock was intercepting its path before John could stop him. Slamming into it’s midnight blue hood with an audible crash, hitting the ground with another. “Sherlock!” John screamed.

“Get them!” The detective croaked, pointing to the halted van and the men who were exiting it. The driver took off at a sprint and his partner appeared seconds later, the young girl who they had captured fumbling on shaky legs, a gun pressed to her temple.  John’s own gun was trained on the man before he had time to think.

“Let her go, or I will shoot!” John took a steady step forward and the man dug the barrel of his gun into the girls head. She whimpered.

“It’s alright. It’s okay. Just relax. You’re going to be fine.” John nodded reassuringly at her and then drew his attention back to her captor. “Let her go and we won’t come after you.”

“Get out of here, or I’ll shoot her in the fucking head!” The man’s American accent stung the cool night air. Behind John, Sherlock groaned.

“I hate Americans.” He mumbled.

“Okay! Okay, I’m putting my gun down. Just… Let her go.” John raised his hands, heart thumping and stomach twisting. The other man didn’t even wait for him to put it on the ground. He dropped the girl to the ground and took off at as a sprint, getting less than ten feet before a bullet escaped John’s gun with a bang and plummeted through the criminal’s right knee cap. The army doctor sighed, flipping the safety and putting the gun back in his belt. He rushed over to the trembling girl, her scrawny arms and legs trembling as tears rushed down her cheeks and she fought to bite through her taped wrists. Lifting her up, he carried her over to where Sherlock lay and then set her back down in order to turn his attention to his date. “Sherlock. Sherlock, don’t move.”

Sherlock chuckled breathlessly. “Wasn’t planning on it.” He coughed. “I’m alright, John. Nothing’s broken. No concussion. I don’t suspect any internal bleeding. The van was only going ten miles per hour when it struck me. Just knocked the wind out of me. I just…” He groaned. “I just need a second. Help the girl.”

John hesitated a moment before turning his attention to the wary teenager, whose sobbing had yet to subside. Retrieving a knife from his pocket, John cut the tape and allowed the small girl to fall into his arms with a fit of sobs. “I d-didn’t s-see them… Thank you… Thank you s-so much.” She sobbed, hiccuping and clutching mercilessly onto John. “Thank you.”

A clear voice interrupted their moment and John realized that Sherlock was up on his feet, clutching his chest as he growled into the phone. “Lestrade… Yeah, it’s me. Sherlock. Obviously. No, I’m fine. I was struck by a car, but I ran in front of it, so it’s technically my fault. Y- No. Lestrade, Shut up! We found a girl being kidnapped but we - my date and myself. Yes, I date. No - No it’s not - Lestrade, this is hardly the point! We found a girl being kidnapped but we were able to save her. Yes, we have one of the criminals in custody. You may want to send an ambulance. No, for him. Yes, just a moment.” John watched Sherlock jog out to the nearest street intersection, coughing upon arrival and then croaking their address into the phone. He clicked the screen and then shoved the device back into his pocket, allowing his hands to settle in them as well as he glided back over to the veteran doctor and their damsel.

Bending down, he rested a tender hand on the girl’s back. “Are you alright?”

The girl drew her face from the crevice of John’s neck with a sniff, peering up at Sherlock from behind large, watery, doe eyes. She nodded, crawling clumsily from Sherlock’s lap and wincing as her hand made contact with the ground. John reached out and grabbed her wrist, examining it from beneath the glow of a streetlamp over their heads. “It’s alright, Mister. I - I broke it a long time ago. It just… It never set right.”

John stared at the girl curiously. “Didn’t your parents take you to see the doctor?”

The girl shrugged. “I don’t got one.”

“A doctor? Why not just go to the hospit - ”

“No, mister. A parent.” The girl’s dirty, brown hair spoke volumes just then and John observed the girl for the first time. Her feet were bare, her jacket was torn, and her jeans were far too big. She had only one shoe.

“You’re homeless.” John sighed.

“Don’t worry, John. I’ll have Mycroft set her up.” Sherlock retrieved his phone from his pocket once again and stepped away to divulge in what he assumed would be another less than pleasant conversation with his brother.

Sirens began to wail in the distance and John looked up just in time to find two police cars and an ambulance pulling onto the street. Beside him, the small girl whimpered and crawled closer to John, who sighed as she began to sob again and allowed her into his embrace. Paramedics were lifting the unconscious gunshot “victim” onto a gurney, wheeling him up to the ambulance and slamming the doors shut. John informed the girl that he was gone, but she remained afraid. It quickly dawned on the man that she was overwhelmed by the sheer number of people. “It’s okay. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

A third car arrived on the scene minutes later, sleek and black. “I think that’s the man who’s going to help you…”

“Heather.” Her voice was shaking.

“Right. Heather. Come with me, let’s go talk to the police and see how we can get this settled.” John rose to his feet and pulled the girl up with him, leading her over to the crowd. She continued to stare at the ground and John noticed that when he did catch her eyes, they were abnormally dilated. _What are you on?_


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It didn’t seem as though Lestrade had the same reaction as the woman whose phone he’d borrowed, but more in the sense that he’d just won a bet with himself.

John and Sherlock deposited the girl with the police when they arrived and hitched a cab back to a quiet part of town, not far from Baker Street. Sherlock and John had silent apologies in their minds as they rode silently in the cab, Sherlock immediately meeting with a regal, balding man who had climbed stiffly out of  a sleek black car ahead of them. John later discovered that this was Sherlock’s older brother, Mycroft Holmes. Another man was with them as they situated Heather with a shock blanket, some tea, and a slice of hot pizzoli.

Meeting Greg Lestrade was not the intimidating experience that John found upon shaking hands with Mycroft Holmes, but he certainly would have preferred if that was where the tension lay. Greg Lestrade was the detective inspector Sherlock had mentioned earlier that night, as well as who he’d called on the phone and mindlessly let it slip that he was with a date. As John flitted about the men, still in awe of the regality of it all, he took note of the relationships between them.

It was quickly apparent that while Sherlock and Mycroft did not get along, Lestrade was more than happy to be in the presence of the somewhat arrogant genius. John watched with a sort of jealous curiosity as Lestrade grinned at the consulting detective, his silver hair and shining eyes clouding the clarity of his age. The army veteran felt an urge to stand between the DI and Sherlock, but restrained, instead shaking hands and making merry with the man.

“John Watson,” he said, his name sounding more forced than he’d hoped.

The second detective seemed surprised that the date Sherlock had referred to earlier was, in fact, a man. John held onto his hand for longer than he’d anticipated and watched studiously as Lestrade’s eyes widened, his face flushed. He darted his eyes to Sherlock, who had now appeared behind them, finally growing weary of his brother’s lecture. Lestrade just smiled, his words tumbling out of his lips. He tried to sound nonchalant, but the effect was lost on the soldier, who just held back his snicker.

It didn’t seem as though Lestrade had the same reaction as the woman whose phone he’d borrowed, but more in the sense that he’d just won a bet with himself.

“Greg Lestrade. So… Y-You’re the bloke that got this bastard whipped?” The man smiled in a way that made his cheeks crinkle, the slight blush that had creeped into them deepening. John was fond of him. He hoped Sherlock was as well, but not in the way that Lestrade seemed fond of Mycroft Holmes. The younger brother came forward to rest beside John, the proximity of his high shoulder intoxicating John. He never answered the man’s question as Sherlock’s deep voice swept him up in its cascading waves.

“John, Lestrade is head of our operation here. He sends me word of a case, and I send him word back. He seems to be able to put up with me fairly well.” John bit back his jealousy. _Fond indeed_ , he thought.

“Ah… What about the girl?” He quickly changed the subject.

“Mycroft is setting her up in a private hotel, complete with protection. She was adamant about receiving the extra guards; seemed she got her fight back once she had a bit to eat and was given word that she’d have somewhere warm to sleep tonight.” Sherlock’s eyes went dark with the damp night air, and as they met John’s, he felt that the excitement of the chase hadn’t ruined the date after all.

“Was she on something?” John asked, composing himself.

“We wanted to test her before she bathed tonight at the hotel,” Lestrade said, eyeing Mycroft suspiciously over John’s shoulder, “but she seemed resistant. I think she’s under the influence now, even if it’s wearing off.”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. “Sherlock? What did your ‘powers of deduction’ reveal?” John hoped to make a light joke, but the handsome man answered with an impassive seriousness.

“Heroin.”

Lestrade sharply inhaled. He looked as though he knew something John didn’t.

“Sherlock?” John asked lowly, underneath his breath.

“We should go. Goodbye Geoff. Brother.” Sherlock spun on his heel and made his way past Mycroft.

“Sherlock,” John said again. He seemed to say that a lot since he had met him. _Yesterday, I met him yesterday._

Sherlock was walking down the street towards the flat before John could catch up, his leg mysteriously harmless.

 _John wouldn’t approve of my past,_ Sherlock felt insecure as the man finally kept in pace with him, Sherlock’s long legs sweeping over the damp sidewalk.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied truthfully, “I’ll tell you back at the flat.”

He couldn’t lose John’s trust, and as a soldier, he must understand the temptation of substance abuse. He’d just been drinking his problems away the night before, after all. _The night before. I’ve only just met him._ Sherlock couldn’t wrap his head around why he felt so comfortable around a near-stranger.

They walked silently, briskly back to the flat. John resisted the urge to intertwine his fingers in Sherlock’s, to claim him as his date once again. The cab chase had left him dazed and he wondered if it still counted.

The men approached 221B, smitten with the thought of resting in the all-too-familiar living room. Sherlock pushed his way through first, his tight legs doing little in failing him. He flew up the stairs quickly, tearing his long coat from his arms and roughly tossing it on the hook.

Sherlock sank down into his chair with a thump, hand immediately flying to his mouth in a thinking position. John entered the room, nearly breathless with the image of a stripping Sherlock branded into his mind.

“Sherlock,” John repeated for the nth time that night.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock followed excitedly; he was able to hold down his nervous, timid nature in the presence of John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here you are - a kind of smutty goodness.

John and his date had now caught their breath as they sat adjacent, minds spinning over the events of the evening. It was nearly ten.

“John, I do hope I haven’t ruined your night with my work,” Sherlock said suddenly. John’s heart leapt awake and responded to Sherlock’s rumbling voice, which dripped with self-disappointment. John was eager to correct him.

“Sorry, what? You think that cab-chasing and saving of that girl was unpleasant?” John chuckled nervously, “I was hoping you’d still call this a date, even after all that… But it most certainly didn’t ruin my night.”

Sherlock’s eyes nearly seemed gold in the yellow light of the flat, and a coy smile tugged at his lips. “No? So you enjoy adventure?” Foolish of you, Sherlock, he’s a soldier with a psychosomatic limp, of course he longs for violence! His mind was less clear when it came to John, his rising and falling chest and healthy glow distracting him from sharp deductions.

“I do indeed. That was… ridiculous… But the most fun I’ve had in a while.”

“You brought your gun. Of course you were itching for adventure.” The men laughed until it faded into a low hum. John wanted so badly to sit on the arm of Sherlock’s chair and stroke his face, eventually kissing it.

“Dinner was nice. So it’s still a date? American blokes included?” John’s cheeks were sore with smiling, but he couldn’t help but grin at the wonderful happenstance that had presented itself in front of him. He hoped he was as lucky as he felt.

“I wouldn’t say I’m pleased that we had to share it with Americans, but I still count this as a date, yes.” Sherlock couldn’t find anything unappealing in the face of the man who sat across from him now. It lit up with joy then darkened with heat. Sherlock felt John’s eyes linger on him for too long, and although his body reacted, he didn’t want to mess anything up. _Calm down, Sherlock. Maybe he’ll understand._

John could barely control himself now. He braced himself to stand, but Sherlock’s voice faltered into a whimper as he struggled to speak. “I wanted to tell you…”

“You don’t have - ”

“No. If this is going where I think, where I hope it goes, you need to know something about me.” Sherlock darted his eyes to his hands, which clenched into fists on his knees.

 _I haven’t told him about Henry yet, does he have a past lover? Was he heartbroken? Does he have AIDs?_ John’s heart pounded with the thought of not being able to be with Sherlock in every way that he wanted to.

“Sherlock,” John hoped his voice was soft as he sat back down, his bum landed quietly in his chair.

“I have a history with drug abuse, mostly heroine. That’s why I knew about Heather…” _Please don’t be disappointed in me._ Sherlock couldn’t meet John’s eyes, even as they were locked on his trembling form.

John stood abruptly and Sherlock knew he was about to walk out, attempt to leave the flat while he was still packed. What the soldier did, however, was move closer to Sherlock. John reached out a hand and placed it timidly on the head of the chair beside Sherlock’s ear, his confident stare finally drawing the detective in. He couldn’t look away, his eyes swirling with navy seas and turbulent storm clouds. John’s second hand paralleled his first and he leaned down, his face angled down at Sherlock’s tilted one.

He moved his right hand onto Sherlock’s cheek, it as strong and structured as John had hoped. He traced his thumb over the risen bone under tight skin.

“John,” Sherlock breathed.

“Are you clean?” John asked, his thumb still stroking. The fascinating, intelligent, nearly inhuman man was captivated with the rhythmic movement, as well as the handsome face which was now less than a foot in front of him.

“Yes, I’m very sensible… I’ve been tested… Nearly eighteen months...” Sherlock’s words almost failed him as John swooped his face downward confidently, his lips indulging in the plump texture of the detective’s. John pressed them down harder, not forcefully, but with intent. He hoped to soothe Sherlock’s worry with a kiss. And what a kiss it was. Sherlock’s lips were tender and full, the perfect fit to John’s.

 _Jesus…_ John was getting heady and heated, and he wanted to continue but sensed that Sherlock was confused at his actions. He pulled away regretfully, his lips slightly damp and parting with a relieved sigh.

“Your past doesn’t scare me, Sherlock. I couldn’t care less if you have abuse issues.”

Sherlock was in shock, but as he regained himself after receiving his first legitimate kiss (from someone he was interested in, no less), he found a few words.

“Thank you.” Sherlock raised his eyes under heavy lids to the soldier, and he was now the one to reach a hand up. He found the back of John’s neck and the air between their lips compressed as they collided once again.

The men indulged in the tender nature of the kiss, but as Sherlock stood and tilted John’s body under his height, his hands unconsciously finding their way into John’s hair, down John’s back, and onto John’s rear.

John’s hands, in turn, did the same, sliding up and down Sherlock’s sides through his thin dress shirt, feeling the slight raise of his solid hipbones, the firm, round shape of his rear.

The men became heated quickly, their lack of contact and aggressive nature adding to the impatient attraction they both held. Sherlock was the first to explore with his tongue, and he prodded lightly at the opening of John’s lips, asking for entrance. John was surprised at his dominance but it only fueled his fire more, and he greedily accepted Sherlock.

They swayed on the spot, pressing their bodies harder together, eager to reach the limit. John pulled back from the steamy kiss and untangled Sherlock’s hand from his hip, grabbing it and leading the taller man into Sherlock’s bedroom, which was the closest. John couldn’t climb up the stairs to his own in his current state.

Sherlock followed excitedly; he was able to hold down his nervous, timid nature in the presence of John. John made him feel safe, even as he pushed him down onto his own bed and climbed on top of him, his thighs squeezing Sherlock’s hips.

John crouched down over him and ravenously devoured his mouth once more, moving his lips and teeth to bite at Sherlock’s neck. He refused to remember how much Henry liked that. Taking a momentary rest, he allowed the detective to pull the t-shirt over his own head before resuming with feathery nips and pecks.

The sight of John’s toned upper body, complete with military trained muscles and a shiny scar on his left shoulder, caused the detective’s body to respond justly, a rumbling groan vibrating in his chest. Sherlock rested his hands on John’s hips, noticing how perfectly they fit there. Sherlock deduced with fine eyes the bare man on top of him, his solid shoulder muscles leading into a strong back, complete with a gentle crevice where his spine trailed down to his tailbone. John was tan and pink, his body heavy and compact. John admired Sherlock’s reactions to his bare chest, and John let himself react to Sherlock’s. John’s quick fingers made light work of the buttons on Sherlock’s sexy purple shirt, and as he pulled the halves aside, he sat up, bracing himself for the glorious sight below.

Sherlock was flushed, his neck, cheeks, and lips swollen and red from the contact. His collarbone and chest was slightly damp with the heat, and his bones tightened against his skin as he breathed heavily. His eyes slid closed and his brows furrowed, John now tracing the chiseled pale skin of his abdomen with an eager hand. Sherlock was a paragon of beauty and sensuality, rivaling Michaelangelo’s marble creations. Of course, his magnificence was exposed at John’s fingertips, and he was nearly jealous of himself at the chance to explore it. Sherlock raised himself with his strong abdomen and sat up to bring his mouth to John’s. John brought his hands up around Sherlock’s hips and onto the expanse of the man’s bare back, but his fingers tensed and balked at the familiar feeling of soft, smooth scar tissue.

“Sherlock…” John said, looking over Sherlock’s shoulder to see his back. John Watson craned his neck and brought his eyes down on what he’d expected. Sherlock’s strong shoulders had multiple gashes in them, which had turned pale and shiny with time.

“John, don’t look at them…” Sherlock mumbled nervously. An air of self-disgust swept over Sherlock as he lowered himself to the bed to hide the wounds from his lover’s view, only stopping mid-movement once he caught John’s eye.

“Scars are sexy, Sherlock.” John’s gaze lingered on one of the scars that had reached around to the muscular padding on top of Sherlock’s left shoulder. “We match,” he said, as he leaned down to kiss it, his lips moving against the shiny skin.

The detective’s worry escaped in a soft whimper, both in respect and joy at the doctor’s reaction. Sherlock was now below the man, John’s hands returning to Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock wanted to cry out John’s name as the army doctor’s lips came crashing down onto his chest, John’s hips scooting down Sherlock’s own to make room for his trailing tongue. In the process, Sherlock felt John’s straining erection brush his own. He tensed, suddenly completely aware of it.

The abrupt rigidity went unnoticed by the soldier, however, who continued to descend upon the detective’s lean body, the short ginger hairs that lead down his stomach to his crotch tickling John’s chin as his lips swept over Sherlock’s naval and his fingers played at the clasp of the genius’s trousers. John slipped his fingers along the hem of the man’s pants, marvelling at the smooth skin that met his fingertips. It was then that the soldier became aware of heavy breathing above his head. Must be enjoying this, John chuckled to himself, looking up only to lose any of the amusement that had been there moments ago.

He sat up quickly, wrenching himself away from the taller man, whose cheeks were flushed, glimmering eyes staring wildly up at the ceiling. His fists dug into the sheets beside him, but it was not with ecstasy that such things occurred. “Sherlock?” John’s voice was something of a growl, arousal thick in his normally higher-pitched voice. He coughed once to clear it away. “Sherlock, are you alright?”

Realizing for the first time that John was no longer atop him, the consulting detective sprang up, jolting back against the headboard with a thump as his toned back hit the wood. He let a long-fingered hand clutch at his bare chest, raking at his own skin in hopes of letting the air back in through his flesh. His fingernails left red marks on his alabaster skin. Sherlock looked around to find that the walls of his normally spacious bedroom were caving in. _Oh. A panic attack._ “My apologies.” His voice was breathy and John crawled forward, taking the man’s face between his warm hands.

“Sherlock, look at me.” The soldier resented the authority in his voice, so… _medical._ The detective complied, catching John’s steady gaze with wild eyes. “Sherlock, it’s alright. You’re having a panic attack, but you’ll be alright. Just take a deep breath.” The doctor caressed the man’s worry lines, the genius sending him a glare.

“Obviously.” He growled breathlessly. And then, in a whimper, “John, I’m - ”

“Yeah, Sherlock. I’ve grasped that. Just relax. It’s okay. We don’t have to do anything, do you understand? _You are under no obligation._ ” John’s sweet voice danced within the other man’s ears and he took another ragged breath.

“Sorry- I can’t- I can’t b-breathe - I’m sorry - ” Sherlock would have rolled his eyes if he’d been uttering such words under any other circumstance, but now, with his eyes blurring and lungs compressing, the man found himself clutching at John’s much smaller hands, which were no longer on his face but pressed against his own chest.

“Sherlock, shut up and listen to me.” The doctor scowled. “Feel… Feel my chest. Copy that. Do it.”

Sherlock whimpered again. _Pathetic. Come on, dammit!_ He took a shuttered breath and John grinned reassuringly, watching with half a friend’s eye and half a doctor’s. Slowly, slowly, the detective’s breathing returned to normal. Sherlock’s breath matched John’s, his hand still gently touching the man’s hot skin.

Three broken breaths, a hiccup, a wheeze.

Two more shuttered breaths, then nearly a strong one. Another gasp. Another turbulent sigh.

John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s forehead and the man shuttered again. “It’s alright, Sherlock. You’re perfectly fine.”

And just then, Sherlock believed it. He sighed, trembling one last time and wincing at the burning of his overworked lungs. Face red, he turned to retrieve his shirt off the floor, stopped mid motion by his soldier. “Don’t. Sherlock, it’s fine. I’m not angry with you. You haven’t disappointed me - ”

“I’m a virgin.” Sherlock blurted, chest and face flushed red, sapphire orbs glassy.

John rolled his eyes. “I know, you idiot. I realized that minutes ago. Why hadn’t you just - you could have said something.”

Sherlock’s eyes locked on John’s, unmoving, unwavering. “Incompetence.” the genius finally said.

John sighed, massaging the age lines of his forehead with shut eyes and sweaty fingers. “God, Sherlock.” He chuckled and the man raised a brow, gasping as he was pushed onto his back and kissed gently on the shoulder. “New plan. We talk, clearly things need to be discussed. You’re _obviously_ afraid of sex.”

Sherlock glared, “John, I’m not sure I wan - ”

“Shut up.”

“But you said to speak - ” Sherlock was cut off once more.

“No. You were about to talk me out of this conversation and suggest that you just blow me instead, and I’m not having it. Now tell me what you’re feeling.” John pressed the taller man’s head against his chest and at first Sherlock went stiff, only calming when John ran a hand through his curls.

Sherlock finally addressed John’s words with some surprise. “How did you - ”

John rolled his eyes and said, “Because I’m _not_ a virgin. Now shut up and tell me what you’re thinking.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He smiled a broken man's smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Sexual Assault (memories)

The men situated themselves accordingly, Sherlock leaning against the headboard of his bed. John had slinked out of bed as Sherlock took more cooling breaths and had opened his bedroom window slightly. The night air drifted in and chilled their heated bodies, Sherlock’s scratched skin fading, as well as his flushed cheeks. The moonlight illuminated the interesting room, and Sherlock’s grateful eyes shone silver as John joined him on the bed.

“I can go first, if you’d like.” His voice was soothing and Sherlock’s panic attack had subsided. His fingers were twisted into nervous knots, but John was afraid to touch them with his own.

“...Okay.” Sherlock had deduced much about John’s heart from that first confession about Henry, but John was still unaware that he knew that, and the tall, exposed man was hoping he’d confess it now. John darted his eyes away from Sherlock’s strong neck and began his spiel.

“My first time was with my boyfriend when I was 17. He was rough and dominating and it scared me, but I just thought that was how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to bottom, grit my teeth, and pray that next time he’d let me do something for me. He did, on occasion, but those occasions were far too few and always seemed to be traded for favors. We were together until my 18th birthday. He dumped me. I’ve … never been particularly excited for my birthdays since then.” John breathed his confession out, the sweetest sadness in his eyes.

Sherlock held his accumulating knowledge in. John was treated roughly the first time, and with Henry, too. _I wonder if he’ll ever be able to experience that pleasure. Not that I’d know first hand._ For some reason, John made Sherlock comfortable laughing at his own innocence. “A luckless romance, it seems. Mine is less than valid.”

“You have a story? I thought you said - ”

“I am, but I still have something to say. See, when I was at uni…” Sherlock cut himself off, his voice trailing out the window.

“Sherlock, I have night terrors,” John confessed, filling the tense room with more broken words, in hopes of making Sherlock’s reason for his panic attack more valid.

“That’s unfortunate.” Was all the detective could think to say. A moment later, he hesitantly added. “I’m sorry.”

“When I saw you panicking just now, I was strangely glad that you had something like that. You seemed too inhuman to be afraid.” John bit his lip. “ I don’t mean it like that.  Y-you know what I mean. They were really bad during the war, and I was afraid that they’d come back full blown when I was … left … at the airport,” John scooted over his words, “But luckily I got too drunk to dream.”

 _Don’t say anything about it, not yet._ “Well if you keep me from relapsing, as well as taking your time with me, which is very respectable and honorable, by the way, then I think I can try as best I can to help you dream only pleasant thoughts.”

“Sherlock. You were at uni?” John smiled. Time to change the subject. His curiosity was returning, and he wanted very much to hear Sherlock’s story.

“Right. Well. I was rather a handsome bugger when I was younger, that much was evident. I don’t have a problem with my appearance and I don’t think I ever have, but to answer your previous assumption about me being ‘afraid’ of sex…” Sherlock sighed, his sharp, angular face contorting as he searched painfully through his files. He found the one he needed and pulled it from the depths tremulously.

“At this time in my life, I didn’t know what I liked. I didn’t think I liked anything, or anyone. I was focused on my studies. I didn’t have time for dating, even if I wanted to. Mycroft always pestered me about it, but I think that was his way of being proud of me, for some reason. I remember one day, towards the end of the first semester, I was in the library. I was doing some pleasure reading, since I’d finished my research early. Of course I had. I was looking at, for God’s sake I can’t even remember the book. I really have locked this memory away...”

John’s breath sunk down to his stomach. He was genuinely afraid for Sherlock. He bit his tongue and let Sherlock talk, the man’s plump lips parting and coming together beautifully, even if the words that escaped them sounded broken and tender.

“There were these two workers at the library who always closed it on breaks. It was just before Christmas break, and I was staying on campus, so I waited until the last few minutes of the day, usually the last one in the study. I don’t even remember their names, just their faces when they asked me.” Sherlock’s fingers were tangled in a mess of tense cracking.

“They said they had a bet. They each bet the other that I was or wasn’t straight. I didn’t even know at that point, you know? I didn’t know. But they seemed sure. One was a woman, the other was a man. They came up to me on the last day, the library empty, save for me, and asked which I was; straight or gay. I said I didn’t know. The woman said she thought I was gay, the man didn’t think so. Apparently they’d watched me every time I’d worked in there and they were planning an experiment… of sorts. Of course, you’d think that’d make me not want to be a chemist, but it wasn’t like that. There weren’t any harsh chemicals involved, although I wish there was. At least those kinds of scars would’ve been given proper treatment. You must know, John Watson, that I haven’t spoken a word of this to anyone.”

John nodded, his expression a mix of horror and anticipation.

“The woman was sitting on my lap. She didn’t kiss me, you were my first,” Sherlock chuckled nervously. “She ground on me, is that the right word? She was holding my hands above my head, I don’t know what she wanted, since the man was the one watching. He was telling her what to do, to see how I’d react. He was using me as a sick test. He kept saying, ‘No, I think he’s straight. Look, see how he squirms.’ My body betrayed me and reacted to the heat and contact, and they both noticed. She fell between my knees and unbuttoned my pants, grabbing and touching me before I could do anything. I wasn’t able to speak or move, I was frozen. It was quite scary, actually. Like I said… my body betrayed me. I finished quickly, to my own regret. She fumbled with her purse - which was blue, I remember. And she was about to hand him money, but she stopped him from taking it and said it was her ‘turn.’ She wanted to make it fair, to see which one of them I’d like more. I was paralyzed, tired, and terrified. My throat was dry, but I deduced what would have happened next. She took his spot on the shelf, she leaned against it. I remember she folded her arms and cocked a brow, as if she expected me to react differently to him. He didn’t wait. He did the same thing as she did, but with his mouth. It was disgusting because I’d never… well, you know why. He - ” Sherlock stopped abruptly.

The soldier’s stomach clenched, he knew the feeling of being powerless well.

“She said to him, ‘No, I’m sure he’s a fag. Blow him and we’ll see.’ It was like I wasn’t a person. I was just a part of a game, a bet. She locked eyes with me, but she didn’t look at me like I was human. I was just pile of cash. Anyway… He… did what she told him to do. And it felt really bad because I was already so sensitive, you know. It was painful. A forced orgasm. He was rough and nippy. I reacted to it again, and he looked up at me, more with disgust than anything else. He wanted to make me finish, even though he was the one betting that I wasn’t gay. It was all confusing and horrible and none of it seemed real. That wasn’t the worst part, though… I knew myself well enough from puberty what a good orgasm was, and the fact that his stubble on his chin touched my thigh made me go wild - unnaturally reacting. It was obvious to me that I liked the man better, and the woman was smug. He pulled off me and coughed up what I’d done. I didn’t know I was capable of that, twice in so little time. They argued for a while which one I was, as they walked away, but when they spoke of me, they never used my name and they talked about everything I did. I was too shocked and hurt to pull myself together, since they just left me there. I don’t know what they were thinking, committing such sexual harassment as that, on campus, no less. I even knew exactly what do to report them when they were doing it. But once I heard them refer to me as ‘it,’ it became pointless. Like I wasn’t even worth protecting. I didn’t go to authorities. I just pulled up my pants with shaky hands and left the empty library. They were laughing at a video of a cat when I left, they didn’t even see me go.”

John inhaled sharply, the weight of Sherlock’s words hitting him. He feared that the worst was yet to come.

“I felt incompetent after that - I couldn’t even get hard. It took me nearly a decade to work up a libido again. And from then on, I knew I was gay. Because of that. That part of me that I’d finally figured out was because of some sick bet between two fucked up library interns. Not that I’ve had enough experience with other people to make me realize that I’d have a panic attack if someone touched me, but I did research. I was sure I’d be okay, especially with you, because I felt so safe with you already. It doesn’t matter. I’ll figure it out.”

The room was silent. John watched as Sherlock pressed his sweating palms to his head, locking the memory away once more. He sighed with relief.

“I don’t know why I didn’t delete it. The memory. I wanted to, I can do that. To make more room for other information. But I didn’t. I need it.”

The soldier let the words sink into him. They were heavy and horrible, but with them came the bond that he’d sought from Henry. Henry never went into such detail. John finally let the tears roll down his cheeks. Even now, he compared Sherlock to Henry. He pushed the man out of his head for the final time, Sherlock’s broken form replacing every memory he’d stored. This act of confiding was the final proof.

John was speechless, but he felt like he needed to say it was okay. He said the only word he could find.

“Sherlock,” he let the word slip between his lips like he’d done so many times earlier that night. The way his tongue tapped the top of his roof, the last syllable disappearing into thin air. It was a certain sound, his name, and now it was full of remorse and empathy.

Sherlock smiled a broken man’s smile. “That’s all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry - but you made it through the whole chapter, eh? 
> 
> Poor Sherlock. My partner was watching me as I typed this and she was crying... oops.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's about as messed up as John BLOODY Watson.

John Watson didn’t have night terrors that evening because he hadn’t yet allowed himself to sleep, and Sherlock didn’t have to risk it because he hadn’t either. Both men lay awake, gazing at each other, silent. Those words, _“That’s all”_ , rang in John’s ears like the aftershock of a grenade. The deafening blow. The damage. Sherlock had mentioned that he was going to shower, but John barely heard him. He was still stuck on Sherlock’s story. Flushing water from down the hallway caused the soldier to jump and promptly close his eyes, feigning sleep.

When Sherlock entered from the bathroom, he had on his robe and briefs, but nothing else. The men had not had sex, obviously, but the temperature of the room had heated considerably against the backdrop of their emotional states and with little to lose, his dignity already somewhere far gone for the time-being, the consulting detective had shed his sweaty attire and retreated to the bathroom. He bathed the memory away, although he didn’t want to wash the taste or smell of John off of him. When he re-entered his room, he halted in the doorway, staring down at his almost-lover, who was clearly pretending to be asleep. Unsure whether this meant he wanted to be alone or not, Sherlock bounced on his toes indecisively. Sherlock fiddled at the hem of his robe, which had soaked up the heat in the room, even though the window was innocently breezing the night air in. Sherlock shed himself of his robe and set it carefully over a random chair, his eyes still on the man’s form in his bed. He smoothed his bare, chiseled torso with a damp hand nervously. “Oh, for God’s sake,” He finally grumbled, climbing onto the bed to lay beside the doctor. The bed shifted beneath Sherlock’s added weight and a shiver raced down John’s spine. He was not alone.

The consulting detective stared up at the ceiling, mind racing with all the details of their earlier conversation. Beside him, John was doing the same.

_“That’s all”. What does he bloody mean, that’s all? “Oi, I’m Sherlock Holmes. I’m about as fucked up as John BLOODY Watson, but THAT’S ALL.”  The voice screamed inside of John’s head. His voice. I can’t believe he never told anybody… Years with a secret like that… and here I am, playing dead while the man lays there, just THINKING. Is he going to do that all night?_

Sherlock exhaled dramatically. _Why would you tell him that? Now he’s going to worry. Bloody stupid sentimental people… Did I just say bloody? Great, I’ve known the wanker two days and now I’M getting sentimental. Why did I have to lie beside him? I’m not going to touch him. He’s ignoring me on purpose. Besides, he’s disgusted. How could he not be disgusted? I should have just gone to the couch. Bloody psychopath, gets off on dead bodies, social leper, used VICTIM, disgusting. Incompetent. The mind can only do so much. It needs people to listen to it for a change to occur. I’m not worth being listened to. Bloody arrogant prick. Bloody drug addict…_

John continued to grumble silently, a war having started in his mind. Just bloody talk to him. Tell him he’s okay. Tell him that he’s not incompetent. Tell him that isn’t all. Then, Why? So he can deny it and then continue to fester? I don’t even know the man, really. John felt a clock ticking within the fabric of his brain. A deafening silence of his own thoughts. His voice peaked out one last time and a groan escaped the doctor. Don’t you?

John rolled over with a huff, immediately earning Sherlock’s attention. “You do know that you’re amazing, right?”

The consulting detective gave John a sidelong glance and then averted his eyes back to the ceiling.

“No, really. Sherlock you are. You solve fascinating crimes. You’re mentally superior to everyone I’ve ever met. You’re successful despite having undergone a horrible trauma. For god’s sake Sherlock, you kicked _heroin_. But you said ‘that’s all’. You made it sound like you were so worthless that being r - being attacked… being attacked was nothing serious. You are bloody brilliant and you are bloody strong, and really, really, truly _hot_. So let me tell you, Sherlock Holmes, before I pass up a valuable opportunity: I’m not going to let you hate yourself. So kiss me and then lay on my chest, and tell me about your favorite things.” John reached out and rested his hands on the sides of Sherlock’s face, but had to make no further effort as the detective pressed forward and smashed his soft mouth to John’s, lower lip trembling slightly. John ran a quick hand through Sherlock’s curls and then smiled as the man did as he was told, pushing the doctor flat onto his back and then placing his large head on his chest.

For the man’s pride, John ignored the droplets landing inconsistently on his pale skin, instead listening to the man’s wobbly explanation of tobacco ash and chemistry sets.  


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a night terror and asks Sherlock out to breakfast.

When Sherlock opened his eyes, they pulled apart slowly, the weight of the nearly sleepless night pushing them down. The man remembered in pieces what they’d spoken of the night before. _I told him about the library. He told me about his first boyfriend. He still doesn’t know I know about his husband. Ex-husband? Goddamnit._ Sherlock blinked the sleep from his eyes and hazily deduced that it was early in the morning.

The lump shifted beside Sherlock and his attention was drawn to the man who turned toward him, pulling the blanket with him, still asleep. After a few minutes of watching him sleep, Sherlock noticed that the man was mumbling.

 _Must be dreaming._ John furrowed his brows. Sherlock watched his countenance contort unhappily but was still, lying beside the man quietly.

 _‘Henry!’_ John’s dream self shouted, his voice strangled and forced. His husband was not facing him, and as John tried to run to him, he seemed farther away.

 _‘Henry?’_ The soldier felt that something was off, even as he continued to chase the man. He realized that he was running to someone who was only ever going to walk away, but his legs continued to pump - aching with a burn-like pain in his dream. He couldn’t stop, and now Henry’s form came closer towards him as he ran.

John was afraid to see him turn around. He didn’t want to see his face, and he didn’t want to remember that he was left alone at the airport.

 _‘It’s over, John. I’ve moved on.’_ Henry said. John was horrified, but he couldn’t look away.

 _‘John, you could never satisfy me. You were never enough. You were boring. I found someone else. She’s going to replace you.’_ Henry was vicious as he spoke, a woman suddenly beside him. She looked familiar to John, but her features were slightly off and he couldn’t place a name. She grimaced at him, her face contorting into a scary mess. Her eyes rolled back into her head and she breathed sharply, a raspy, estranged noise escaping her lips. John recognized her.

 _‘Harriet?!’_ He screamed. John’s sister met his eyes and smiled devilishly, her red lips beginning to bleed from the sharp teeth that now cut them. Her usual blue orbs were yellow and full of terrible heat. They bore into John like a threatening sun, but he was paralyzed. His heart began to race as he noticed the change in Henry. The man standing beside her wasn’t a man at all, he was a mass of black blades, sharp wings protruding from what used to be a strong back. He lunged, fangs snapping like broken bones. The last thing he heard before the blades engulfed him was his name.

John awoke with a start, his vision blurred with the sweat that dripped from his forehead. When he realized where he was and who he was with, he tensed once more, suddenly desperate to put space between him and Sherlock.

“John.” Sherlock called to him a second time. _Night terrors,_ Sherlock recalled. This one, however, was evidently about Henry and how much he missed him. How much John still loved him. _He’d called his name, after all._

“Sherlock?” John spoke his name, hoping the brilliant man understood what he’d meant to ask without using the words. _Did you watch me as I dreamt about my gay husband leaving me and replacing me with my lesbian sister? Are you afraid of me now? Did I call his name?_

“You were dreaming. It must have been about something important to you, you were talking in your sleep.” Sherlock held the information about John’s husband close to his heart, which now seemed more like a burden.

 _I was talking. He must have heard me say his name._ “Are you okay?” John’s words were out of place and he wasn’t quite sure why he’d said them, but they came tumbling out anyway.

“Me? Why wouldn’t I be okay?” The man’s prominent nose and sharp cheeks drew John’s attention away from his nightmare. There was a calm, silver lining around Sherlock’s face. The sun had yet to rise, but the light drizzle of the usual English rain streamed through the open window and reflected in Sherlock’s dazzling eyes. John and Sherlock had stayed up talking until they both ran out of words, until Sherlock’s vibrating voice filled John’s chest to the brim and he drifted off. That must have been no more than five hours ago.

John changed his mind abruptly, “Nevermind.”

Sherlock sat up on his elbows. He wanted to ask what the dream was about, but he felt like he already knew and he didn’t want an answer. John must’ve seen this in his face, because he answered Sherlock’s unspoken curiosity himself. “I dreamt about my ex.”

The detective pretended he didn’t already know that, or that he knew about Henry’s abusive tendencies and the way he got bored of John and threw him away. “Oh? Do you miss them?” Sherlock asked this with the intention of it sounding vague and innocent, but it came out more jealous than he’d hoped. He also didn’t assume the ex was a man.

The two men danced around each other, seemingly unaware of what they’d spoken of and physically done the night before. Sherlock had confided in John with his most traumatic memory and John revealed that his two of his past relationships both had him do things he was uncomfortable with sexually. Sherlock had had a panic attack and John had a nightmare about his husband. John had even told Sherlock exactly what he’d needed to hear. They’d fallen asleep together speaking of meaningless things. They weren’t strangers and they weren’t just flatmates, but there was a strange barrier between them as they spoke now.

“Yes, but no. I dreamt that they left me, which they did.” John hadn’t allowed himself to confess that he was once married and that his husband was the one who he referenced now.

 _He must really love Henry…_ Sherlock thought this sadly, his usually endless brain numbing with the fact that John probably would go back to Henry, if he were given the chance.

Sherlock couldn’t bear it, he had to ask. “Would you go back with your ex?” The words were colloquial and stupid and most definitely unlike Sherlock, but he felt sentimental due to the connection and respect they’d formed the night before.

“No.” John said, nearly smiling as he caught the jealousy in Sherlock’s voice. _Not now that I’ve found you. He’s smiling. I wonder if he still wants to date. I hope so._ John’s sleepy brain was slowly sparking back to life, and he took in the sight of the man in his bed with much appreciation. He wanted to reach out and touch the soft skin of his neck, if only to feel the blood coursing beneath it.

 _Good._ Sherlock watched as the soldier’s worn features crumpled into a beaming smile before John’s soft lips opened and closed again with impatience. John Watson was thinking about kissing him, that much Sherlock could deduce. Of course, he didn’t know if he saw it because he wanted to or because it was actually there.

John wanted to kiss him. He refrained as he climbed out of Sherlock’s bed and stretched, his muscles relaxing as they expanded under his tough army skin.

Sherlock’s own briefs suddenly felt heavy, and he played with a loose curl on his forehead. He watched John lean towards turn him, a curious expression on his face as the sun finally began to peek over the horizon.

John’s face flushed slightly as he asked Sherlock out to breakfast.

“You mean out to the kitchen?” Sherlock said, the corners of his lips tugging into a small grin. _So he still wants to date._

“Yes. That is, if that counts as a date.” John couldn’t bear but use the word again when he noticed the hope in Sherlock’s eyes. “I think it does.”

“It most certainly does. But the sun has yet to rise and breakfast time is far from here.” Sherlock’s worry that had plagued him only a few minutes before was gone as John climbed onto the bed on all fours and rushed into Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock felt like he needed to say something cheesy to make up for what John had said to him last night, but he couldn’t find the words. John took them from his lips with a kiss, and Sherlock felt better about being silent.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The men were as happy as they could be in the current situation.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock shouted, though how he managed to do so with such an impeccable whine was something of a talent for a thirty-five year old man to hold onto.

John groaned, flopping out over his chair in the living room. “Honestly Sherlock, you can delete any useless information you want and you decide to remember how to bitch like a toddler.” The doctor mumbled, sweating through his grey t-shirt as he continued to sprawl out like a cat. Eventually, he rolled onto the floor.

Sherlock glared, but only so much menace could be directed towards his lover. “John, it is breaking 36 degrees in here. My brain cells are too valuable to be torched all because the BLOODY RADIATOR IS BROKEN.” Sherlock aimed his voice down the stairs and John sighed. The detective seemed to have picked up the phrase from the doctor, and he emphasized it now without a second thought.

“Then go outside, Sherlock. You certainly won’t be too hot.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “There’s a blizzard raging out there. I still value my life, I just didn’t anticipate my entire day being one long session of Bikram yoga.” The detective tugged at his sticky shirt. “Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock called again, growling at the lack of a response.

“Jesu - Sherlock, she’s in Dublin, remember? She’s visiting her sister.” John chuckled at Sherlock’s angry gasp.

“I’ve been yelling for twenty minutes!”

John laughed at that, “I know. It was bloody entertaining.” John, whose shoulder ached against the hardwood floor, released a quickly concealed moan of discomfort, not unheard by the sweaty detective.

Sherlock slid off of the long couch with a thud, crawling across the floor with the soft, padded stomps that one envisions from a puppy, flopping beside his lover and smiling. “One moment.” He mumbled lazily, earning a breathless laugh from John. With a deep gasp for thick air, Sherlock wiped the beads of sweat from his glistening forehead and sat up on his knees, pulling John up as well and scooting behind him to knead his long fingers into the man’s once-injured shoulder blade. “Sherlock, you don’t have to - ”

“Shut up, John. You’re massaging me in a moment.” The detective continued his handy work, eventually getting frustrated with the damp t-shirt and pulling it up over his lover’s head before he could protest, resuming the massage without another word.

“Where?” There was a grin in John’s voice and Sherlock froze momentarily, a deep flush enveloping his countenance. The detective’s hands ventured to the other shoulder, continuing to press firmly against John’s skin, admiring the smooth surface with a tightening of his crotch.

John moaned appreciatively and Sherlock moved downward, massaging at his spine and middle back, eventually kneading his way to the tailbone before John sagged forward and Sherlock laughed, the sound escaping in a throaty growl. “My turn in a sec, Sherlock.” John  mumbled.

“Patience,” Sherlock explored the doctor with his slender hands, his fingers nimble and forceful. John’s knots and muscles were kneaded with an intense pressure, and the digging of the detective’s blunt nails into his skin when he pressed harder felt painfully pleasurable. John wondered where that kink came from, but he didn’t dwell on it for long as Sherlock’s hot breath in his ear snapped him back into reality.

John let Sherlock touch him freely for a few minutes before his groans and gasps of painful relief were nearly too much to handle, and Sherlock couldn’t help but shift his body so his erection was more comfortable.

John Watson knew this movement only too well, and he cocked a brow playfully, which Sherlock couldn’t see from his position behind him. His hands had moved up past his shoulder blades and into his neck now, and John sighed as the slender fingers tugged at the hair at the back of his head. John was immediately bombarded with images of Sherlock running fingers through his hair as he topped the detective, bringing him close to release but pulling away right as he was on the brink, his breath trickling out of his lips with the only word he could find: John’s name.

“John, is that good?” Sherlock asked, completely oblivious to John’s intense fantasy.

“So good.” John’s horny moan escaped him and it was Sherlock’s turn to pull a puzzled brow. John spun around quickly, eager to find the consulting detective’s lips. He found them already parted slightly, damp and soft. Sherlock received John’s tongue happily, and he pulled the smaller man up onto the couch.

 _Don’t go too far,_ John reminded himself, _remember what happened that first time._ The first time was nearly two weeks ago now. Since then, the men hadn’t explored as much sexually as both of them would’ve liked, but it was established by this point that they were officially dating. They went to dinner, John always eating as Sherlock watched him carefully, not touching more than a forkful of food. They’d been to the cinema, but they just ended up snogging halfway through. The men were as happy as they could be in the current situation - they were always around the other.

 _Luck seems to be on my side, this time around._ Sherlock thought as he continued to explore John’s mouth with his tongue, pulling at his bottom lip with his teeth. _I found a man who is respectful, loyal, stubborn, adventurous, handsome, and patient. He’s not that kind, but neither am I, so it works. Of course, I have yet to tell him I know about Henry… He hasn’t told me about him._

_I am one lucky bastard. John’s groin tightened as his lip received a thorough sucking from Sherlock. I found a man who’s intelligent, magnificent, sensitive, factual, spell-bindingly sexy, and tortured like me. Seems I’m the only one he isn’t necessarily an arsehole to. Ah, but I haven’t told him about Henry. I don’t want him to think that he’s just a rebound. Even if he were, he’d be the most incredible slap in the face._

The men jumped on the couch behind them and slid down until John lay flat on his back, Sherlock lying on top of him. John cupped Sherlock’s rear with his hand. He was eager to bury himself in it, but he knew that Sherlock wasn’t ready. Sherlock gasped with the contact.

“We’re not going too fast?” John always asked some form of this when they got horny and rough, which, in all honesty, happened too often.

“Fuck me.”

“What?” John pulled back from the spot he’d been biting on Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock lifted himself a few feet above the man below him so he could bore those ever-changing eyes into his.

“You know what I said.” Sherlock’s stomach clenched at the thought of finally being with John in that way, but he wanted it to happen with such ferocity that it drove him insane at night. He’d had to wank in the shower nearly every time they’d get personal. John, of course, did the same.

On one occasion, four days previous, Sherlock had pinned John up against a wall and ground into him, resulting in both of them finishing loudly. The change of pace in their relationship was well received on both ends, since Sherlock was the one to initiate it. John knew Sherlock was loopy with the heat, but it was clear that Sherlock was still in control of his emotions, the temperature having just numbed him down to an average person’s libido.

“Are you sure?” John asked now, eyes still on the darkening red mark of the tight alabaster skin.

 “Yes,” Sherlock said.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is a lucky bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, okay, fine - just take it. Take the smut.

The men’s shirts and trousers were off like lightning in the storm that raged on outside their flat, although the inside of the building was as hot as the men’s breath. John took it as slow as he could with the man, but Sherlock would have none of it. He wanted John to hurry it along, although he admired his respect. The men kissed on the couch, their bodies graced only by their thin pants.

“Stop with the cautious kisses and touch me.” Sherlock growled into John’s collarbone. John trailed a finger down Sherlock’s abdomen at his words. For someone who doesn’t eat, he is quite fit. John licked the outline of one of Sherlock’s abdominal muscles, dragging his tongue down the strangely red hairs that led to Sherlock’s throbbing erection. John was nervous to touch him, but Sherlock snarled a beast's growl at him once he darted his navy eyes back up from between the detective’s legs.

John placed a hand on the outline of Sherlock’s erection, but a hiss of pleasure was not what came from the man. He tensed and bucked his hips backwards, his panic returning. _Can we not do this now?!_ Sherlock yelled at his body. He just wanted to have sex with his flatmate, was that too much to ask?

Watson immediately drew his hands back, sitting up and crawling towards Sherlock until his face was inches from the other man’s. Sherlock pressed himself against the arm of the couch, John on all fours approaching him. He kissed his forehead and placed his hands against his cheeks. “I’m touching your face, Sherlock. Just your face.”

Sherlock nodded, taking a deep breath and shaking out his sweaty hair. A flip switched inside the man, however, and he growled, a bellowing “FUCK!” escaping his soft lips as he slammed a fist into the patterned wall on the right of him. John flinched, following it shortly with an exasperated sigh.

“It’s alright, Sherlock. Really.” He tousled the man’s locks and refused to let go when Sherlock tried to push him off. He learned that last time. “No, Sherlock.” His voice was wearing thin from the sheer heat of the air. “I’m not going to let you push me off and go sulk in your room. This is an issue we will both tackle. Together. As a couple.”

Sherlock frowned. “John, don’t you want sex?”

The soldier was taken aback, a frown matching his partner’s knit gracelessly onto his flushed, damp face. “Of course I do, but - ”

“Then why are you wasting your time with me?” Sherlock knew that was all it was. Wasting time. He was, as the librarians had assured him to understand, nothing more than an object upon which one could test their theories and desires. A doctor and a soldier is a valuable member of society. But, a detective? Well, there’s always Mycroft to take up where I leave off…

John realized the mistake he’d made. “Sh… Bloody hell.” He shook his head, frustration in the back of his throat, “Sherlock, I’m not just in a relationship with you for sex. You’re worth more than a quick shag with some stranger in a dirty pub. I hope I am too…” But the soldier wasn’t sure. “Besides, I bloody live here, it’s not like I can shag you and leave. And to be honest, if I was only in it for sex, I wouldn’t have been patient enough to wait these last… What has it been now? Two weeks?”

“But they didn’t leave.” Sherlock felt a knot in his stomach.

John was sufficiently confused at this point. “What the hell are you talking about now?” He posed, a brow raised, nose nearly touching Sherlock’s.

“The librarians. They didn’t leave. You said you live here, so you wouldn’t shag me and leave, but you don’t have to. It doesn’t matter. It would still be etched into my mind no matter where you were in proximity to me afterwards. I will always remember how you feel against my skin and whether you run out on me or you simply watch cat videos and ignore my presence, it won’t matter.” Sherlock’s brows knit together, “And on another note, I’d appreciate it if you weren’t an idiot. Clearly I’m not going to leave you. You have the - ” Sherlock bit his tongue and flinched away from John’s heavy grin.

“Oh my god. You were going to say - ”

“No, I was not!” Sherlock glared.

“I have the - ” John was still grinning, laughing, eyes twinkling.

“John.” A deep flush had taken hold of Sherlock’s face, embarrassment peaking at the crimson tips of his ears.

“Upper hand.” John was nearly howling, his forehead pressed against Sherlock’s, shoulders shaking. “You think I’m somehow in cha - ”

“Fine,” Sherlock growled, “I’ll be in charge.” Leaning forward, he nipped at the soldier’s bottom lip and smashed their mouths together, taking hold of John and flipping them ‘round so that John lay on his back with Sherlock atop him once again. Sherlock played at John’s pants, pulling them down with a rapid swoop and pushing away the anxiety in his chest. He looked up to find the doctor staring incredulously.

John smiled. “You said you wanted to be in charge. Do it. I’ll tell you what I don’t like.”

Sherlock grinned, muttering “Okay,” his voice a husky growl. He placed his long fingers on John’s cock, ragged gasps escaping the both of them. “Okay.” He said it again, his lips trembling with nervous excitement. This time, he spoke to himself as he began to stroke his lover’s erection. The doctor moaned, the back of his head digging into the couch. “Is this wrong?” Sherlock asked, voice shaking. John shook his head and urged the man onward.

 _Fuck,_ John swore, his chest heaving with the deep breaths he couldn’t quite find, the sight of the usually mechanical man flushing as he watched his own hand slide the foreskin down and up John’s length causing his stomach to churn deeply. John slid his over Sherlock’s back, feeling the usual prickled skin of the scars that he’d found the first night they’d fooled around. Sherlock’s brow was furrowed, as if he was concentrating on getting the rhythm exactly right. His hand dwarfed John, and his grip was solid and firm, while his skin was soft and tender. John was in heaven as he watched the man, the heat in Sherlock’s eyes darkening them to a smoldering gold.

“Am I doing okay?” Sherlock asked, his voice carrying up from John’s crotch and into his ears like music.

“Y-yes,” John stuttered, his mouth stretching into a gasp as Sherlock tugged at a different angle, a little harder.

 _He likes it when I do that._ Sherlock watched John’s expression and used his own deductions to calculate what angle, pressure, and speed John preferred. He liked it slow and hard, but as he began to twitch his solid thighs, Sherlock increased his pumping tortuously. He ignored his own hardening erection because his focus was on taking charge and pleasing John. However, when John Watson let out a horny moan and stuck his own fingers in his mouth in hopes to stifle it, Sherlock couldn’t contain a groan, and bucked his hips against the base of his hand, which was still gripping John.

John noticed. “You’re not getting off.” He rose his head in hopes to see the man, but it dropped once more when Sherlock bit his lip and ground his hips against his wrist once again. “Touch yourself,” John demanded, his lips damp from the wet breaths he’d been taking in hopes of outlasting Sherlock’s perfect touch.

“I’m supposed to be in charge, don’t tell me what to do.” Sherlock leaned down and nipped at John’s nose playfully, sealing his affection with a light kiss.

“I want to see you enjoy this as much as I know you want to, I can see it on your face.” John teased Sherlock, although his voice was cracking between gasps of pleasure.

 _Don’t deduce me, you sneaky bastard._ Sherlock couldn’t help but smile as he unbuckled his own trousers, pulling his cock out. It was damp at the tip and eager to be touched, and Sherlock was glad that his panic didn’t spark. He was used to touching himself, and even though the gaping mouth of the man below him dropped open further as his eyes cascaded down Sherlock’s length, Sherlock swallowed his fluttering heart and began stroking himself. His other hand matched the new movement, and slowly, both men were receiving the same torturously tedious pleasure.

John endured, for the sake of Sherlock, for the man was just now opening to him and taking charge, as well as performing for him. He so desperately wanted to flip Sherlock onto his stomach and kiss down his back, bite his shoulders, and take him, but if he were to get there eventually, he’d have to let Sherlock take control. _I suppose I do have the upper hand…_

Sherlock sped his pumps up, eager to feel the release of his orgasm, but John sparked with the quality of  a fantastic lover and stopped Sherlock’s hands with his own. “No, not yet.” Sherlock let him go, his hand feeling sadly empty. John shimmied and lifted his legs from under Sherlock, who had been sitting on him. Sherlock’s weight trapped John’s pants and accidentally tugged them off. John was completely naked as he stood straight now, looking at Sherlock, who was still kneeling on the couch, cock in hand.

“You were right, Sherlock. I have the upper hand. And as much as I wanted to take it slow with you, I can’t. I need to take you, in one form or another.”

“Who said I wanted it slow? Come.” Sherlock threw John’s pants from the couch and slipped out of his own. He crawled forward on all fours and rested his elbows on the couch’s arm, his knees digging into the soft fabric. He exposed his rear. “I’m sure we could substitute something, yes?” Sherlock was nervous that John would have him completely, but he trusted the man he’d been dating, and he spread his legs a few inches farther apart.

John nearly bounded forward with excitement, but he just placidly crawled back onto the furniture, in between Sherlock’s legs. He held his own cock and stroked it as he directed Sherlock to do the same. “Okay. Okay, then let’s see if this is okay. Tell me when to stop.”

John was momentarily caught by the sight of Sherlock’s exposed, pale rear and clean opening, but an impatient grunt from the man caused him to continue in preparing. He stuck a finger in his mouth and sucked on in, his eyes never wavering from the perfect shape of Sherlock’s halves. He spit on his finger as he retracted it from his mouth. With one last question of consent, which was met with a growling, anxious response; John inserted his wet finger into Sherlock.

The tall, dark haired man hissed as his nerve endings ignited, John’s thick, strong finger filling him strangely but also causing a deep, whorish feeling to spiral in his lower stomach. John, in turn, was reveling in the feeling of Sherlock contract and pulse around him, even if it was just his right middle finger. He forced himself not to compare the virgin with his husband, but he did, to his dismay.

 _I hope he doesn’t compare me to Henry…_ The thought bounced in Sherlock’s head but was quickly shaken out with the addition of another finger. Sherlock gasped and bore down on the strange feeling, John now moving himself into his own hand behind him. The sound of his uneven breaths were enough to send Sherlock over the edge, and John hadn’t found his spot yet.

After a few minutes of light nipping of Sherlock’s back, a few naughty words whispered in his ear, and even a large, painful hickey coming to terms with the soft skin of Sherlock’s neck, John finally pushed deeper and hit Sherlock’s prostate.

Sherlock melted, his lips parting with a dribbling moan, _“John.”_

“Sherlock,” John said, now leaning forward and resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. The feeling of a spot of pure sex inside such a regal man was driving John insane, and he couldn’t help but stimulate it repeatedly while stroking himself. He slowed, increased, stopped, and changed angle for the better part of ten minutes, each time he brought Sherlock from the brink of orgasm, he received a snarl from the man. It was coated in lust, but Sherlock was irritated that John teased him so.

Sherlock rarely swore in the quantities that John did, but he did now, to himself, _Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, please, fuck, oh God…_ Eventually, with the addition of a third finger and another rotation, the words became audible and John groaned upon hearing them. “Fuck, oh - fuck!”

Sherlock’s thighs tensed and his stomach clenched, his knees nearly gave out and he had to rest his head on his arms, which now had folded beneath him, too weak to hold him up. He couldn’t spread his legs any further, and the hot lips that trailed his shoulder, as well as the presence of John Watson, sent Sherlock straight through the clouds and into the heaven he thought he’d never believe in.

John, by this point, was drifting in and out of reality while inside Sherlock, his own grip tightening along with the muscles around his fingers. He had rested his thighs on the back of Sherlock’s, his pulsing cock nearly touching the man’s cheek. John wanted to please Sherlock, but the wanton sounds the detective made did little to help his own stamina.

“Sherlock!” John couldn’t hold it anymore, as a particularly slutty moan came from Sherlock, his entire being jolting before crumbling. John pumped himself harder, but Sherlock had lost control of his hands and they lay limply underneath him, the only thing able to move being his lips as he stretched them into an O, pleasure coursing through him in huge waves. He rode out his intense orgasm as John made a “come hither” movement with his three fingers. Sherlock tightened around him and came with one final groan, his semen sticking to the couch. John lost feeling in his fingers and slowed to a stop, his own orgasm hitting him. He clenched his teeth and furrowed his brows, his palm tightening with one final squeeze. He came in streams across Sherlock’s back, and both men collapsed into a messy heap with a sigh.

Sherlock was numb and quivering, his arse still throbbing with the previous stimulation. John’s left arm was sore, his muscle tense and hard beneath his tight skin. He breathed a hot breath into Sherlock’s damp hair. “J-Jesus, Sherl-lock…”

 _John. John. John Watson._ “John.” Sherlock sputtered.

Sherlock watched John with content eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips and soaking into his cheeks. “Move,” he said as he climbed back onto the couch, which was now being hogged by the tall man. Sherlock scootched and flipped onto his back, John crawling on top of him, one hand on Sherlock’s chest. Once shifted and comfortable, the men dozed off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm jealous of that couch, TBH


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was in the midst of Spring that the opposite was forced to occur.

Before John Watson stepped into his life, Sherlock Holmes had been an incredibly careless man. Yet, a true reason to live was a significant game-changer and the consulting detective found that his own death was no longer such a pressing matter. John’s however, seemed to be the problem. Many times, on many different cases, the man had been subject to kidnappings and physical assault at the grubby hands of one angry suspect or another. More often than not, it was with a gun to his temple that John found himself wondering where the hell Sherlock was, because this was getting tiring and he really was rather hungry. In their three months together, he was never afraid, though, because he always knew - he knew Sherlock would see a piece of string laying about, the color of a room, the tap of a fingernail on a glass countertop, and have all the clues he needed to come to his inamorato’s rescue.

It was in the midst of Spring that the opposite was forced to occur. John found himself in Greg Lestrade’s office, hands shaking, a light throb in his knee. “I’m supposed to be able to find him, Greg.” John’s voice trembled and he pressed his palms to the back of his head, elbows extended as he paced the room.

“Wait, tell me again. I’m still confused.” Lestrade confessed. “Sherlock… let himself get kidnapped by the triad?”

John sighed. _I think I’m starting to see the goldfish Mycroft referred to._ “We were hired to find a girl, whose parents suspected, had run away, but upon closer inspection it appeared she had been kidnapped. Apparently,” His arms swept dramatically as he spoke, “That bloody idiot discovered otherwise. All I have is this voicemail.” He pulled his phone out and set it on Lestrade’s desk.

_“John, it’s me. I seem to have,” The detective was gasping and in the background, a familiar metallic jingling sounded, followed by the insistent beeping of a crane’s reversal. “I seem to have underestimated a major Chinese mob. They’re going to find me in three… two minutes. This has to be connected to that girl, that Heather girl from the first night. I think the Chinese are working with the Americas. God, I hate Americans. And the Chinese, for that matter. Though, that might be racist.” A man yelled in what sounded like Spanish or French far off and Sherlock was silent for several seconds, then, his last words played out, “Call Lestrade and find me.”_

“I’ve heard that before, that jingling. it’s a machine, I think.” John began to pace. “While I was I on vacation - ” Then it hit him. “That’s a penny machine! Name the tourist traps in London.” John pressed his fingers to his temples, a faint whisper that Sherlock really had gotten under his skin.

Lestrade gawked. “All of London.”

“No… There was something else. Play it again.” But John beat him to it, pressed the button, and listened intently. The beeping of a crane’s reversal. “Tourist traps under construction.” John realized, rewinding the message to play it again. A man yelled in the background in what sounded like Spanish or French. No. Italian! “He’s in Clerkenwell.”

John turned on his heel, grabbing his phone as he swept out of Lestrade’s office, not caring to see if the DI followed.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John couldn’t help the swing of his arm, gun in-hand, or the crack of a jaw as his blow connected with her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Graphic depictions of wounds.

Clerkenwell, London’s own little Italy, was not a particularly large or crowded area, and it didn’t take John more than twenty minutes to find the construction site. He searched the perimeter frantically, apologizing in bad Italian as he bumped into construction workers and old women on their way to Sunday mass. He circled the machine frantically, trying to gauge just how closely Sherlock had been to its constant rattling. He took a recording with his phone. Listened. Too close. Backed up. Compared to the voicemail. Better. Took another step back and hit his heel on a concrete wall about four feet tall. “So he was crouched here.” John mumbled.

The ground was covered in a layer of dirt from the persistent construction and John could easily see where Sherlock had stood and where two men had come from behind to grab him, dragging him back where they came, down an alley between two buildings. _Dragged. No sign of a struggle. He was knocked out then. Drugged._ “Damn, Sherlock. Where are you?”

John followed the trail of his dragged body and found with a twist of his chest that it stopped mere feet away, at a back door behind the alley. “Oh, you bloody idiot. You meant to get caught.” John pushed at the door, but found it locked, and with a sigh, pulled his gun from its place and shot the lock with a deafening bang. He winced, but otherwise didn’t react, pushing the door open and quickly making his way through what appeared to be an inactive warehouse. He moved observantly, focused on the shadows. It took him five minutes to find the stairs, and after that, another three of listening to figure out where exactly his inamorato was being held. Broken English trickled from behind a door and John realized that it was laced with a heavy Chinese accent. He listened, gun at the ready. “Mr. Holmes, you’ve been foolish. Nobody is going to find you here. You will become just another product.”

A sluggish, agonized voice rose up and John’s stomach clenched. “Define product.”

The captor, decidedly a woman, spoke again. “We find exactly what people want… and we provide.”

“You trade people.”

The woman laughed. “Yes. For sex mostly. Won’t that be lovely, Mr. Holmes. In fact, we have somebody who’s been asking about you.” 

John raised a brow, his hand on the doorknob. “Who?” He heard Sherlock groan.

“A Mr. James Moriarty. He’s a…. companion… to the Triad.”

And that was all John needed to hear. He pulled the door open and stormed in, taking out the two men who were quickly approaching, not stopping long enough to watch their bodies hit the floor and aiming his gun at the head of a small Chinese woman. “Hello.” He growled, “I believe you have something of mine.” He flicked an eye to Sherlock, blood sliding along the man’s body and wrapping around his sides to drip towards the ground at the point where his abdominal muscles met. He was held up by chains, hanging forward with a sagged head. John realized with another twist of his stomach that Sherlock wasn’t wearing anything at all. No. He turned back to the woman with a quick adjustment of the grip on his gun, pressing it to her forehead. “What did you do to him?!” He shouted. He could barely recognize his own voice.

“Nothing you haven’t done.” She chuckled and John couldn’t help the swing of his arm, gun in-hand, or the crack of a jaw as his blow connected with her face and she fell to the ground with an audible thud. His heart was racing and if Lestrade hadn’t stormed in then, hadn’t pulled his gun away and ordered him to help Sherlock, he probably would have killed her.

John freed Sherlock from his binds and was unphased when the typically graceless detective began to breath raggedly, backing away from the stares of Scotland Yard and hitting the wall behind him with a strangled cry. John gripped his shoulders and forced eye contact with the man, who would later deny the tears on his cheeks. “Get them out of here.” Sherlock growled. His helpless gaze flickered from John to Scotland yard and the ex-soldier nodded curtly, turning to Lestrade.

“Greg, get out of here. Take them with you.” He nodded towards the other officers, who were pretending to busy enough for an excuse to stay and watch Sherlock Holmes lose his mind. Lestrade hesitated and John couldn’t help the angry flush that swept over him. “Now!” Lestrade sighed and hustled everybody out, all reluctant to go. John turned his attention back to Sherlock, who was shaking, eyes closed, head pressed against the wall behind him. His forehead was a knot of lines and John sighed. “Sherl - ” The man jumped, “Sherlock, they’re gone. Alright? Now what happened?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked open and he bore a gaze into John’s. Fear danced inside of those sapphire orbs and the soldier realized he hadn’t seen that kind of terror since the war. He shuddered. “Deduce it.” Sherlock mumbled. He was staring at the ceiling now.

John’s brows furrowed and he bit his lip, sliding a glance down the length of Sherlock’s naked body. At first, all he saw were little cuts and bruises, aside from the very clear trails of blood from something on his back. But, he looked again. He imagined what Sherlock saw when he looked at people, and that’s when he noticed. Bruises on his shoulders and arms were shaped like hands and John realized those were from being dragged into this building from his spot near the penny machine. A shallow line across his neck was graced with a small trail of blood. John realized then that he was thinking aloud. “You were being a cocky shit and that woman threatened you with a blade.” John kept searching. The tops of Sherlock’s feet were speckled with a strange dust formation. “She was stepping on your feet to get closer.” Little scratches were sure to tell more stories, but John had no idea what. He pulled Sherlock off the wall and hoisted him to his feet with an apology to the groaning man. He stepped around him slowly and gasped. “Did you tell them what they wanted to know?” Sherlock shook his head. John reached out a tentative pair of hands and began to inspect the wounds on his inamorato’s back. Dozens of lines, whip lashes, oozed blood. “Jesus, Sherlock.” John’s eyes ventured south to Sherlock’s buttocks, searching for any signs of human contact.

“She was lying, John. She didn’t… Do anything. Nobody did anything.” Sherlock stumbled away from John’s touch with a groan and limped across the floor to where his clothes lay neatly folded atop a wooden chair. “They made me remove my clothes so they could be sure I was weaponless, and I suppose to beat me, as well.” The man slumped clumsily and grimaced at the pain that shot through his back, sliding on his pants and trousers and slinking his coat and shirt over his arm. “Come on.” He moved to exit but about halfway to the door, groaned and leaned up against the wall. John rushed to his side and wrapped one of the detective’s slender arms over his shoulder.

“We need to get you to a hospital.” John eyed him worriedly and helped him ascend the steps to the exit.

Sherlock smiled, pain still in his eyes. “Hardly. I’ve had worse that this without medical attention. And there was nobody to rescue me then.” His eyes were distant and John sighed. He’d have to inquire about that some other time.

“Fine. But I’m fixing you up when we get home.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is a kinky fucker.

It was not surprising to John that Sherlock was an awful patient. He glared down at the man, who was lying on his stomach and gripping their now bloody bed sheets with white knuckles. “Honestly, Sherlock. If you don’t stop telling me how to do my job, I’m taking you to hospital and they can do this.” John tied the suture off as he spoke and moved to the next one.

“John, are you sure you’re doing this right? A horizontal mattress suture is much more effective, in my exp - ”

John growled, “Sherlock, I swear to God. Shut up.”

“That’s no way to speak to a trauma victim.” If Sherlock had been standing, his nose would have been in the air.

John rolled his eyes, “Sherlock, if you were anybody else, I’d be gentle as a bloody feather. If you want to tell me what happened, and not the bullshit story you gave Lestrade, then fine. I’ll listen and be respectful, but otherwise, stop talking and let me do this.” He tied off a suture. “Over-and-over style, I might add.”

“You’re just as bad as Dr. Hemsworth. He stitched me up the first time I was whipped.”

John froze for half-a-second, but said nothing, beginning the stitches for another cut. Most of the gashes on Sherlock’s back weren’t deep enough to be stitched, but those that were received tight black thread. He waited for Sherlock to continue.

“Of course, I brought that one upon myself. I needed to know how long it took the human body to heal from such marking for a case I was working on.” Sherlock jumped slightly as John pulled, making another loop in the suture.

“Wait. You - ” John’s mind buzzed, “You had somebody whip you to test a theory?” He eyed the marks on Sherlock’s back once again, the unopened scars too small to be whip lashes.

“Yes, well, I was fourteen. Though, looking back, I should have just let Mycroft do it. He offered, of course, but I was stubborn. I didn’t want to let him… Win. I suppose.”

John gasped incredulously. “You two - You two are insane!”

"I thought that was fairly obvious.” Sherlock buried his face in the pillow and groaned into it. John rolled his eyes and continued to stitch up the man, but Sherlock’s gasps of pain caused him to momentarily lose focus. He busied himself with asking more questions about Sherlock’s childhood.

“Did you and Mycroft get along then, when you were younger?” John started the last suture.

Sherlock turned his face so his swollen, bitten lip puffed out when he spoke. “Not necessarily. We had quite a rivalry going on, especially because he is much older than me. I don’t know what changed, but one day he stopped torturing me physically and sort of let me wallow in my own self loathing.”

“Hm.” John wiped his fingers on the sheet.

“It was when I was at University, actually, when the change happened. Around the time of the library incident.”

John tugged hard with the added shock, and Sherlock yelped in surprise. John attempted to regain himself, but Sherlock seemed so nonchalant about mentioning it again. It kept John up some nights, what he’d said a the night of their first date. They never spoke of it, but John was always aware. He was aware not to startle him with touching him there and how to calm him down during a, fortunately, less and less frequent panic attack. John hadn’t forgotten that the two library workers had assaulted his partner, but he nearly thought it some sort of nightmare that Sherlock experienced, and now he realized that it had come back to the surface and had affected Sherlock in more than one aspect of his life.

John quickly finished the last stitch and snipped the thread off at the knot before he spoke again. “Oh. Do you think he noticed a change in you, or something?” He tried to keep his voice even. He reached for the disinfectant on the bedside table and poured some onto a flannel before dabbing it onto the wounds. Sherlock hissed.

“As much as I hate to say it, my brother is brilliant. I’m sure he noticed something was off when he saw me again. No matter, our petty tiff only makes life more interesting now. He’s less irritating. Are you done?”

“Just about. Let me get some ice.” John hopped up and left the bedroom quickly, eager to breathe easy without the fear that Sherlock would read his rampant mind. Sherlock was left to bury his face once more into the pillow. He thought to himself. Sherlock was breathing in the smell of his own blood and the sharp tang of the alcohol that stung his back. He grit his teeth when a passing breeze from his bedroom window sent a chill across his wounds, but the pain was more pleasurable than unbearable, and Sherlock found himself reacting to the strain of his broken skin.

When John returned, Sherlock sat up, his skin stretching the new stitches. He groaned,  a strange arousal husky in his voice. He was buzzing off the thrill of the case and the feeling of new scars, and the now tender touch of John as he pressed wrapped ice into his back.

The men sat and spoke as Sherlock’s back numbed. Sherlock was cold, due to his bare skin and the ice, but John’s hands were warm, and the ex soldier found himself running his flat palm over Sherlock’s shoulders.

“You really are a piece of work. Leaving me to deduce where you’d been kidnapped to. And what happened to you. Jesus Christ, don’t even get me started on that creepy Chinese woman.” John slid his hand around Sherlock’s waist and felt the scrunched muscles in his abdomen as he leaned over in a sitting position, his back facing John, who still had one hand pressing ice to it.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. We’re fine now. She had me in a vulnerable position and I admit that I was scared, but you came in all sexy and threatened to kill her, so I found the strength to recover.” Sherlock placed his hand on John’s and noticed his own slowed heart rate quickening with the anticipation of what he was about to do.

John felt his cheeks tighten and he teased, his hand being covered in full by the large palm of Sherlock Holmes. “I can hardly say you recovered. You were as limp as a soft boiled noodle when I found you.”

Sherlock had been weak and in a tremendous amount of pain nearly three hours previous, but after John fed him (to Sherlock’s dismay), bathed him carefully (the bathwater turned crimson with blood and dust), and stitched him, Sherlock had perked up. The pain from the small cuts, scratches, and bruises had mellowed out into a dull ache, and Sherlock found them comforting as they reminded him he was alive. Now that he was patched up and numb, the blood that remained inside him collected in strange spots. Although physically drained, Sherlock had found the strength to blush and even tense with arousal and heady excitement. He was nervous and timid, but he had a strange sense of comfort around him.

In the few months they’d been together, Sherlock and John continued to explore each other personally and sexually, including but not limited to more use of tongues and hands. However, Sherlock was still reluctant to have his crotch touched by John, no matter how much he wanted it every time they kissed. Sherlock sucked in a raspy breath. He felt foolish for saying what he said next, but he felt safe and he’d almost died, so why not?

“Yes, but I’m solid now.” He placed John’s hand on his clothed erection. Sherlock’s breath quickened and he swallowed it away, calming himself. _I want this,_ he told himself this plainly, the only words he could fit together to make sense.

John’s eyes widened in disbelief. Sherlock was now fully leading him in a sexual endeavor, more importantly, one that included his cock being touched by him. John had been denied this simple pleasure in all the time he and Sherlock had dated. Sherlock’s cock had been seen but just out of reach, and now... _Bloody Christ, Sherlock. You will be the death of me._

“You kinky fucker, you do realize that you nearly died a few hours ago, don’t you?” John didn’t dare move his fingers, but Sherlock pressed his right hand down harder and John took the signal. He massaged Sherlock over his dark trousers and he heard Sherlock gasp. The solid bulge was just as John expected it to feel, but now that he was allowed to explore it, he let himself question the situation. After a few moments, John let himself harden and press light, tender kisses into the curve of Sherlock’s neck.

“So there’s no better time to try new things. It doesn’t hurt so much, now. Just… be gentle.” Sherlock reveled in the tender kisses that graced his bruised skin. They healed the flesh and replaced the rough memory of being dragged by henchman. Sherlock stood from the bed carefully, wobbled a bit, and pulled his own trousers off slowly, his dark purple pants the only item of clothing still on him. He took the first aid kit from the bed and stuffed it in a drawer before pulling the cover back onto the bed so the bloody sheets were covered. The smell of iron and alcohol was still in the air, and Sherlock smirked at John devilishly. “I suppose this is rather risque, what I’m proposing. First time sex on bloody sheets?”

 _Alright, now he’s_ really _going to be the death of me._

John followed Sherlock’s lead by removing his own trousers, which were stained with Sherlock’s blood. “Are you sure, Sherlock? You’re fairly weak and probably not completely sharp at the moment…” John’s navy eyes were filled with worry and anticipation, and he knew he’d be able to back out if Sherlock said stop, but he didn’t want him to. The idea of being with Sherlock for the first time only hours after saving him from sex traffickers was naughty and strange, but it only made him harder the more he thought of it, so he closed his mouth without a final word.

Sherlock nodded. “I’m perfectly sharp, John. And if it isn’t good, we stop.”

“Alright.” John darted to the bathroom and back, lubrication in hand.

Sherlock crawled into bed.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, from his position below John, wound his arms around the soldier’s neck and held on for his own sanity.

After Sherlock had told John to shut up and stop worrying about things like panic attacks and pain and open wounds, John found himself muttering words of encouragement into Sherlock’s neck as he lay behind him. The men were on their sides, John’s hands sliding up and down Sherlock’s sides. Sherlock sighed with content and craned his neck to meet John’s mouth. John’s tongue was warm and damp and firm, and Sherlock had forgotten how much he’d missed it, kissing him in such a way. Sherlock’s hand awkwardly reached around to touch John’s face, and John had to pull away and laugh as Sherlock blindly grabbed at his ear. John did most of the moving. Sherlock didn’t want to strain his back, which was still tight and sore, even though the pain was dull.

At first, it was slow and calm. Neither of the men knew what time it was. All they knew was trailing of fingertips on bare skin and the smell of blood mixing with a hollow English breeze. Sherlock’s bedroom was dark and John’s eyes matched the night sky.

John touched Sherlock’s cock carefully, through his pants, and after Sherlock felt safe and content with it, his nervous breath settling into deep, strenuous sighs, he let John pull him out and wrap his hands around him. John touched himself in the same way as he watched Sherlock’s jaw clench in pleasure.

He was astonished that this was finally happening, but Sherlock’s pale profile was more magnificent than any angel he could’ve dreamt.

John was sitting up while Sherlock was on his side, horizontal. It was a cumbersome position, but it worked, and Sherlock hadn’t breached the line of worry or panic.

Then, once Sherlock’s breathy moans became more erratic, John persuaded him to crawl onto all fours and present his arse. John slid from the bed and stood behind him. His own cock was painfully hard and twitching, but he wasn’t worried about himself this time. This was all for Sherlock.

John took a moment to look at the man. Sherlock’s pants were bunched in the crevice of his left knee, his pale, round cheeks prickling with the slightest goosebumps. His back was covered in fresh wounds and black thread, and his thighs and arms were scratched. His shoulders were slightly maroon and the back of his neck was rubbed raw. He was completely violated, and yet John had never seen something so pure. Sherlock was presenting himself here, only for John. His barriers were lowered and everything John had the pleasure of doing to him would be the first. Part of him wanted Sherlock to suck him off, or to have him on his back, or even to take the detective rough and bite his neck, but John knew that wouldn’t happen. Not tonight. Tonight was about breaching new levels, about living. John kicked his pants off and settled down closer to Sherlock’s rear.

Sherlock felt John’s hot breath move from his tailbone down his cleft, and while he felt clean and chilled, he also felt heated and dirty. Sherlock couldn’t string together words from those which bounced around in his head, but he did find John’s name fluttering off his lips once he felt a stubbly chin brush his arse cheek.

Two warm, callused hands pulled Sherlock’s round muscle apart, and the virginal detective felt a warm wetness at his tense hole. It was strange, and Sherlock didn’t like it at first, but John had been here before, and soon the flat of his tongue was doing things to Sherlock that made him sputter.

John felt strange as well, since he wasn’t sure if Sherlock would like being rimmed, but he felt the man quiver and whimper and rock slightly backwards, into his mouth, and John hummed into him, the vibrations traveling from his throat to Sherlock’s core.

It took a few minutes for the men to understand each other’s movements. Sherlock had now widened and accepted John’s tongue wholly, and John was bracing his hands on Sherlock’s calves as he pushed his nose and chin deeper between Sherlock’s cleft.

The man on his hands and knees clenched his shoulder muscles and nearly lost control of all senses as whorish moans dribbled from his lips, but right as he was about to lose his sanity, John pulled back.

John Watson wiped his mouth shamelessly, his own cock ridiculously hard. “How was that?” He spoke the first words in nearly fifteen minutes, but they drifted towards Sherlock’s curly head with a touch of comfort and sensuality.

Sherlock could barely respond. “More please.”

“Ah, greedy little bastard. Fine. Tell me if you don’t like this.” John popped his own forefinger into his mouth and wet it with saliva. He stroked Sherlock’s bum comfortingly with his other hand and gently rubbed his forefinger to Sherlock’s opening.

The nerve endings there that had calmed within the few seconds John had neglected them were now firing up again, and Sherlock had no choice but to push his face into his pillow to bite in excitement and pleasure.

John’s knees hurt and he wanted to take Sherlock, but he knew he couldn’t unless he prepared him correctly. He slipped the finger inside and slowly pushed in and out. It was a smooth rhythm due to the natural lubrication John’s mouth provided, but seeing as Sherlock was quickly learning what felt best, he greedily pleaded for a second finger.

John obliged with the addition of the actual lubrication, which he opened and squeezed directly onto Sherlock’s arse with his left hand. He let it fall to the bed as he continued his unforgiving fingers.

Sherlock was a mess of pleasure. His brain was spouting off phrases and words and equations that he’d never discovered, while his thighs and back heated and clenched in his arousal. His long nose was shoved into his pillow, his thick, plump lips biting and suckling at its fabric as a sort of half-hearted attempt to quiet himself. His dark green eyes fluttered and rolled up into his skull with the addition of a third and final finger. He was being stretched and and pushed, his limits already breached from the attack hours previous, and now the additional pain was only edging him on more. John hadn’t found his prostate yet, but Sherlock was already losing himself.

His moans became deep growls and John slowed to a stop. “Jesus Christ,” he huffed from behind the detective. Sherlock was animalistic, clenching the blanket beneath him and shaking his hips impatiently.

“John. Now.”

John’s skin prickled as he finally touched himself. He spread the extra lubrication across his glans, the wanton feeling Sherlock reveled in now finally becoming tangible. He pushed Sherlock up higher on the bed so he could position himself correctly. When he leaned to grab the lubrication, the tip of his cock brushed Sherlock’s rear. It was such an innocent touch, juxtaposing the adult nature that he’d soon be taking Sherlock in.

He added more lubrication to himself and to Sherlock, and without speaking, he kissed the shell of Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock nodded in response.

 _Slow,_ the word burned with repetition in John’s mind. He found grace in every part of Sherlock, from the bloody black thread surrounding his spine to the partly-damp curls on his head. From the vulnerability in his position to his biting dominance. Sherlock was magnificent to John. A masterpiece worth preserving and protecting, although it constantly second guessed its artist. Sherlock was a handful. A bloody sexy handful at that, but a ridiculous man with unnatural ways of knowing everything and letting that spectacular talent get him into trouble. This man was the definition of interesting, and here John was, preparing to stain this incredible rarity.

“I can’t,” he said, lifting his knees from the bed.

“John,” Sherlock barely whispered his name, the first syllable and a huff, but John’s heartbeat had rushed to his ears in time to close off the hurt in Sherlock’s tone.

“I don’t want to ruin you,” John felt foolish and rough and in a position of too much power for his own good. Sherlock carefully collapsed his body and folded it so he was able to face John.

“I’m already ruined, John. I’m not a virgin in a white dress whose purity calls to unicorns.”

“You are to me.” John was angry, both at himself for taking such an event as this so cooly, and at Sherlock for asking for it now. “And when I saw you all tied up, mutilated, hurt… Well, I didn’t know what to think because I couldn’t. I just saw red and I couldn’t stand it. I’m not going to treat you like what you think you are. You’re the one to deduce everyone and you taught me in your own sodding way, so now I have one for you. You aren’t a piece of trash you think yourself to be. Yes, this is rather out of the blue and I’m ruining the mood but I don’t care - you so calmly mention what happened in the library and now you want me to do this to you so you can make it up to me, or something. And it’s not fair to you. You’re worth too much.” The words tumbled out as John sat on the bed, his mouth directing the sounds anywhere but towards Sherlock.

_John…_

“Sherlock, you don’t have to give this up for me. If you don’t want to. I already feel bad enough.” _I’m never going to repeat history. I’m never going to._

“John. You are being ridiculous.” Sherlock was recovering from the blow of John’s confession, but his sharp vernacular coaxed him back into reality. “You are not going to ruin me, because there’s nothing I can ever compare you to. I never compare you to me, because I am too strange to even fathom. I know that. But you’re worried that I want to do this now as a sort of ‘thank you,’ and that’s not it. I want to do this with you because I want to, because it’s you and I feel safe and I was scared and I want to know that as much as a cocky shit I usually am, setting up that trail for you to find… It went farther than I anticipated and I wished that you’d succeed like I knew you would so you could deduce the problem like I taught you and then take me home. I want to give this part of myself to you because I feel like it’s naturally the right time for us, and - John, listen to me, you’re the most good hearted, loyal, handsome, heroic, and appealing man I’ve ever met… And it’d be an honor to be ‘ruined’ by you, if that’s what you mean by that. Now stop all this talk and get back over here. I feel like two thirteen year old girls.”

“Sherlock - ”

“No, you had your chance to talk. Come over here and fuck me. Please. I want you to.”

With that, John found Sherlock’s hands in the dark and put them on his chest. He felt the tense muscles tightening the skin at Sherlock’s jaw and he kissed there, hard and needy. He felt stupid for being the one to panic and call it quits, and it wasn’t hard to not do it again once Sherlock whelped at his nipping teeth. John was grateful that he hadn’t ruined it, and now Sherlock was unfolding and opening for him once more.

John Watson laid Sherlock down on his back carefully so the stitches didn’t rub the sheet and straddled his waist. He rolled his spine and craned to kiss, which was delicate and languid. Sherlock was the one to align their erections, and he canted his hips up and inward and his silky foreskin rubbed with John’s in such a way that his bottom lip barely had time to fall forward before John captured it in his mouth and suckled it.

Within a few minutes, the detective and his lover had restored their libidos and were rocking with heady expressions marking their countenances. John’s was contorted mostly in his forehead, his age lines becoming more prominent as he reveled in the pleasure. Sherlock’s specialized in moans, his mouth dropping wide, lips glistening with John’s saliva as he made excessive noise. They slid and melted together, chests brushing lightly.

John was shaking by the time he locked eyes with Sherlock and silently pleaded if he was allowed to move forward in their endeavors. Sherlock kissed both of his cheeks and spread his thighs further apart as a sign of consent. John dropped his eyes from Sherlock’s to his chest to his groin, where he fumbled in the dark for the lubrication. Once he found it, he took a deep breath and raised himself to his knees, where he used both hands to squeeze a generous amount into his palms and rub them together to warm it. He applied one handful to his cock and the other to Sherlock’s arse.

The detective expected some painful entrance, complete with tearing, but John Watson had spent his time with Sherlock preparing him both mentally and physically, and as the tip of John’s cock breached Sherlock’s opening, Sherlock felt no pain. John pushed slowly in, and Sherlock only felt full and content with the wide expanse of John inside him.

Sherlock, from his position below John, wound his arms around the soldier’s neck and held on for his own sanity. The feeling of John in him, the way he knit his brows together and gently pulled his hips back, it was all surreal. _John’s wanted this for so long, and he’s refraining for me. For me._

 _Sherlock… Bloody hell, this is so…_ John’s internal dialogue failed as he opened his eyes and looked down at his consulting detective. Sherlock’s expression was serene. His hair was damp and curling wildly from the lack of product, and his cheeks were flushed. His nose was like a snowy slope, almost silver in the darkness. His eyes were light and half-lidded, and his lips were pulled into the most curious of smiles. Sherlock Holmes was completely content with John finally inside him, and a rush of sentiment flooded John, the only means to satisfy it being to kiss his detective.

John nodded and moved again, pushing and pulling himself to accustom Sherlock to the new width. Although Sherlock had mastered the art of taking three fingers, John was definitely longer and completely sheathed in Sherlock down to the base. The detective noticed the difference, but the change was wonderful.

Watson continued to rock, and after a few thrusts, the sore expanse turned into a deep pleasure and Sherlock was lost, drowning in its waves. John responded to Sherlock’s clingy hands and breathy groans with pushing faster. He increased his thrusts until he and Sherlock were both mumbling sweet nothings mixed in wanton moans, completely losing control of any bodily functions.

The sex they’d wanted to have since the night John entered the lab with his soldier’s uniform standing out against the white and blues of the place was now being had, and as the men thought of how far they’d come for this, they came closer to the edge quicker than shy teenagers with hidden porn magazines.

Sherlock let himself go wild with carnal pleasure and thought of John taking him while wearing his soldier’s uniform, which he too often sneaked a look at from its position in the closet. Sherlock dribbled a small “Captain” as his body was now being roughly rocked into the sheets, the cuts on his back opening painfully. The call became louder and needier as John pushed. The soldier changed his angle by an inch and was suddenly pounding into Sherlock’s concentrated spot.

The detective was now beginning to drool with the intensity of the pleasure, the pain from his back causing him to be overly sensitive. His eyes, which were shut, burned and watered, his fingers raked down John’s back as a sort of helpless action.

John Watson, on the other hand, was attempting to sustain his pleasure for as long as he could. He focused on the movement, the noise, the rocking bed. Unfortunately, as soon as Sherlock called him “Captain,” he disregarded the logical, prolonged sex and let himself take what he wanted.

They were the sun and moon. Sherlock was a pale, star-dusted planet hanging placidly in the night sky, while John was strong, warm, and glowing like a summer sun. John’s peach skin tone offset Sherlock’s alabaster, and the two bodies rocked for a final time before their orgasms synced and they called out recklessly. The men rode the waves of pleasure to the brink and back, Sherlock finishing in flecks over John’s stomach, John coming inside of his inamorato.

Once the heat subsided and the men felt the full weight of their exhaustion, they carefully collapsed into each other. Sherlock stroked John’s head and the soldier just hummed into his neck in response. In total, their sex had lasted no more than ten minutes - but they were needy, horny, impatient, and broken; they were forgiven by the gods of pleasure and pain that watched excitedly from above their flat.

They men struggled not to fall asleep within the short moment it took for them to numb in post-coital bliss. “John…” Sherlock found his words, his throat sore from the dramatic moaning. The man was still inside him, and Sherlock was beginning to come off the high of sex and feel both the pain of his cuts and the chill from their constantly open bedroom window.

“Yes?” John was tired and Sherlock could hear it in his voice.

“I need to tell you something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're welcome.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s angular face was terrifyingly serious, a sharp change from the pleasured countenance he’d worn moments before.

“Mmmm… Not right now.” John rolled his face over so his nose brushed Sherlock’s collarbone.

“Yes. John, I - ”

John mumbled into Sherlock’s skin, “I know, I love you too.” _Leave me alone, I’m tired now. Shagging is exhausting._ John failed to realize he’d interrupted Sherlock with something the detective hadn’t expected or believed to be true. But it was true for John, in every sense. Especially now after seeing Sherlock on the brink of death and ridiculous orgasmic insanity.

 _That isn’t what I was going to say, but it’s better._ “Yes, John. I love you. I love you and I’ve just had incredible sex with you, even though I never thought I’d ever be competent with either of them. But I need to tell you something, I’ve been keeping it from you.”

“Fine.” John sat up and pulled himself from Sherlock. He crawled to the other side of the bed and pulled the covers back, revealing multiple smudge marks from Sherlock’s blood. “Can we sleep in my room tonight, then?” John walked, nude, from the room. He ran a hand through his hair and down his neck, unaware that Sherlock was watching his tight bum and thinking how one day he’d like to be the one to top.

Sherlock collected a few things, such as his robe and slippers for the morning, and followed John out of the dark room. However, he paused and decided to dart to bathroom to wipe his arse, which was now uncomfortably cold and wet.

Sherlock made his way through the flat and bounced up the staircase and into John’s room. He was exhausted and sore, so crawling into into a clean bed beside John, which smelled like him, was welcome. Seemed neither of them had been in this bed in weeks, since they both slept in the bigger bedroom.

“Mmm,” John said again. “What did you want to tell me? What a fantastic shag I am?” John’s worn eyes, complete with his recognizable under-eye bags, shone with the excitement of a playful child. Sherlock was momentarily lost in the curve of John’s nose and the rise and fall of his chest. He reveled in John’s handsome face and cocky smile, but he continued on with his confession nonetheless.

“Definitely. But no, actually something I’ve been keeping from you since the night we met.”

John’s eyes opened with shock from his position facing Sherlock, and the furrow in Sherlock’s brow, inches from his own face, made John worry. Sherlock’s angular face was terrifyingly serious, a sharp change from the pleasured countenance he’d worn moments before.

“Sherlock.”

“When we went to get drinks, you got drunk and told me about Henry.”

John’s stomach clenched. _I had a feeling this would come back to haunt me. Of course, I thought Sherlock would have always figured it out himself. Guess John Bloody Watson just can’t hold his tongue._

Sherlock continued, eager to clear his conscience. “You told me he left you and that you don’t like to bottom.”

John snorted, “‘Course I’d let that out. I don’t really fancy it, no.”

“It is nice, though. Maybe you’ll try it someday.” Sherlock scooted forward and kissed John’s nose. “Anyway. I’ve spent the last three months knowing about your husband and comparing myself to him. You said you still loved him.”

“I don’t, if you were wondering. Not anymore. I think I did, but in a different way than…”

“With me?”

“Yes. He and I had fun, but he would make me compromise a lot of things. Not just sex… I wouldn’t see my sister as often as I wanted and my friends sort of fell out. It was unhealthy but I was so attached. Then he left me at the airport after I waited for years, and I realized it was never meant to last. And I met you and things changed, obviously. For God’s sakes, Sherlock, on our first date we saved a homeless girl from bloody Americans.”

Sherlock hummed and moved closer into John’s arms. He buried his face in the crook of John’s shoulder and was feeling exceptionally sentimental. “I’m sorry for never asking about him, even if I already knew everything. Even about the bagels.”

John kissed Sherlock’s messy part, his dark curls permeating with a mixture of his and John’s scent. “God, the bagels. Let’s just… Sleep. Okay?”

“Of course. Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, love.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’d been a year and a half since Mike Stamford threw them together, and John Watson could not be more content.

Fifteen months. It’d been fifteen months since the night Sherlock was kidnapped by the triad, and John found himself walking the streets of London with a cheesy grin tugging at his cheeks.

Sherlock and John ran smoothly. They remained formal and intelligent during cases, but were reduced to sniggering children when left alone to play Cluedo. They worked like two halves of the same coin, living together while remaining fresh and new with the breach of new territory.

Their sex life was healthy, albeit, rather often, but Sherlock and John knew what worked best and what the other liked the most. Sherlock was now an active participant in topping John, which was something they discovered was extremely useful. They switched off when one of them was in a certain kind of mood. Sometimes, it was lazy morning sex, hands clasped loosely on clean bedsheets. Others, it was headboard-knocking, loud, ridiculously noisy sex. Everything worked, everyone was happy. Of course, sometimes John used sex to get Sherlock to calm down from a case or to distract him from his work, but that came with the territory when your partner is the most brilliant man in the world.

Outside of the bedroom, things were just as well. John bought the food and cleaned the house when Mrs. Hudson didn’t, and Sherlock found cases. They spoke often of each other’s pasts, and while they weren’t eating take-out at two in the morning and watching bad reality TV, they were conversing. They talked about their cases, their experiences, even Henry - nothing was hidden anymore. Sherlock even joked that John took lengthy showers in the morning because he always wanked. He didn’t know why he didn’t just wake him up so he could have fun, too.

On one occasion, John and Sherlock took a day trip to part of London that they hadn’t ever touched. They walked through the park, Sherlock deducing the people, until John was nearly crying with laughter at his insults. They walked past a man who John bumped into mindlessly. When John turned to apologize, he was met with a nightmarish, familiar face.

The man’s dark eyes widened and darted from John to Sherlock, his nose and ears turning as red as his hair. He’d stuttered John’s name. John was about to tell Henry that what he did was painful, rude, and less than samaritan-like, but the man couldn’t find anything to say. Instead, he looped his arm through Sherlock’s, nodded, and continued on his way. Henry was left, dumbfounded, jealous, and riled. John and Sherlock didn’t look back, but if they had, they would have seen the face of a man who was completely beat, for he let one of the best and wisest men slip from his fingers.

John and Sherlock were closer than either of them thought possible after running into Henry. They were now completely confident claiming the other as their own. If Mrs. Hudson’s happiness wasn’t enough, Lestrade and Mycroft and the rest of Scotland Yard approved of the men’s relationship in a nearly obsessive way; everyone questioned when John would pop the question. John would always just shake his head in response.

It’d been a year and a half since Mike Stamford threw them together, and John Watson could not be more content.

John had entered the shop he’d been looking for, paced around, and waited for the regal man behind the counter to appear. The shop was clean and dainty and somewhere he wouldn’t normally go, given his boots were muddy and his jacket hadn’t been upgraded in five years. He spent a moment looking around at the various shelves and price tags before speaking to the man with golden eyes and an expensive smile. His heart was fluttering as he told him his name and order number, and was given what he’d asked for.

John played with the silver ring in his fingers. He smiled down at it for a few seconds, before locking eyes with the jeweler behind the counter.

“I’ll take it,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END.
> 
> :)


End file.
